To Belong
by TheGoodThings
Summary: Omega verse. College Life. John's gaze turned to look back to the man on the ground. Sherlock. Sherlock was trying to remove his coat with little success. God, maybe he was high. "No." He said, slowly. He was proud his voice didn't waver, "Sorry, Sherlock's in a bit of trouble."
1. Chapter 1

John was certain these late nights were going to kill him – the bland paper cup between his fingers was his fifth cup of coffee. He made a face at the dredges in the bottom before setting it aside, and drove his now free fingers careening through his messy hair. It was time for a haircut, probably a shave, too. He scrubbed his hands over his eyes before attempting to refocus on the book in front of him, but the text was becoming one big blur of nonsense. It was time to go home.

He flipped the textbook shut and leaned back, body stretching against the back of the stiff library chair. The exam was in two days and he felt no more prepared than he had four, no, _six_ hours ago. John grimaced as he checked the digital clock on his phone. _Definitely_ time to go home.

He quickly packed up the books and notes, and slung his old book bag over his shoulder. The bag had been a hand me down from Harry that probably outlasted its usefulness years ago, but John had enough trouble with money so he stretched what he could. God, that reminded him. The Christmas holidays were close and he needed to ask for additional shifts at the coffee shop; anything to bloat his meagre income. Earlier that week he had briefly considered going home for Christmas, but he really had no interest in spending his time off in a powder keg ready to blow.

He chucked the paper cup in the bin and offered the librarian behind the desk a tired, but hopefully charming, smile. She had a pretty nose. The look she gave back, though, told John he wasn't getting any further with her. _Oh well, never hurts to try._

The night air kicked John out of his musings the moment he cracked the library door open. He wasn't dressed for the sudden drop in temperature, the frigid air bit through his thin coat no matter how close he wrapped it around himself. His fingers curled into his jacket pockets and his shoulders rolled in an attempt to clear the ache that had built through hours hunched over the books. Without much choice, John began his walk home.

Most of the buildings were dark past midnight, even as John left the campus and began walking down London's quiet streets. In an effort to save money, he'd opted to rent a flat privately with three others, and they were decent enough blokes. Back then he'd been lucky enough to find them in his quest for a cheap room; he was a stranger to London, and his gender really didn't help – not everyone was willing to bunk with an alpha they didn't know. It was popular belief that alphas were brash and brutish, and while that may have been the case for some, John never saw the need to parade around announcing his own worth. He was glad for the flat and he wasn't going to stir up trouble to get himself kicked out, there was no way he'd be able to afford living in Halls. A year and a half later, they had all managed to survive each other just fine, and he'd ended up making a good friend or two. Even so, John was looking forward to having time alone this Christmas, come the end of exams he would be the only one left in the flat. _Perfect_.

John's lips twitched into a grin at the thought. Mike Stamford had offered an invitation to his home after John mentioned he was staying in for the holidays, but he'd managed to politely decline. John had as little interest in intruding on another family's Christmas as he had in intruding on his own. Mike had taken it in stride and promptly announced they would all have a farewell night at the pub once exams were over, and god, did John need it. Just the thing to put the crappy semester behind him.

His shoulders hunched against the cold and the weight of the weathered bag shifted uncomfortably against his back. There were several more long years ahead of him if he intended to follow through with all of this – this future he had mapped out for himself. He knew he wanted to help people, he wanted to save lives and the most direct method to do that was in the medical field. Regardless, the cost of university alone was–

John's thoughts stuttered as hushed voices reached his ears: low, but harsh and rough. His gaze lifted to the empty street in front of him, concerned eyes shifting from one side to the other until they settled on the gap between two darkened buildings. When he realised the sounds were coming from the alley in between, John's steps slowed as he strained to focus on the voices. Whoever they were, they were growing louder. Only the street lights and shop windows lit the road, leaving the alleyway in shadows; if he walked across the entrance, he'd be a sitting duck for thugs waiting to mug hapless, sleep-deprived medical students. He considered the fact that maybe it was a drug deal, but West London was hardly the prime location for such business. The closer John crept the clearer the voices became, but all he could discern was that there were two of them, and it hardly sounded like they were playing nice. He could hear them scuffling now, someone shoving someone else, stumbled steps dragging along the concrete. John pressed his back against the bricked corner and tilted his head towards the opening, hoping to see more. Maybe they weren't facing the entrance and he could walk on by unnoticed? The thought seemed far away now that he worried someone might be in trouble.

It was then that the smell hit him. _Omega_. His nostrils flared and his entire body suddenly drummed with alpha anticipation. _An omega in the beginnings of a heat._

The smell drifted from alleyway in waves. John's fingers tensed into fists, and a mantra of 'not good, not good, not good!' swarmed between his ears. He forced his head to clear, his nose suddenly picking up the scents of another alpha. Gods, he could hear it now: the alpha was struggling with the omega in the dirty alley.

John lunged forward without a second thought, gathering himself up to seem as fearsome as he could while plunging into the dark alley. "Hey! Stop it!" He shouted, and the two shadows shifted towards the sudden noise. Two men, John could see now, one pinning the other against the mildewed brickwork. John's march didn't falter until he had closed enough distance to focus on them properly. Neither had a weapon he could see, the omega was shoved against the wall and barely fighting back at this point – whatever protests John had heard outside the alley had ended with his appearance. The omega's scent saturated the air now and his head was slumped back against the brick. Light from the street barely reached the three of them now, but John could see dark curls a striking counter to the pale face it framed. For a moment, John wanted nothing more than to touch that shadowed face. To run his fingers through that hair. To slide them down to– John's gaze turned down to the omega's broad chest, his coat had been shoved back, his shirt forced up, and the alpha's hand's were already feeling their way down his body. No. No, that shouldn't be happening. John let out a threatening growl, his scorching gaze focused once again on the looming man.

The man swung round to face John, returning the menacing snarl as they sized each other up. He stepped between John and the omega and he got a better look at the guy, he was tall, taller than John, but gaunt with an unnaturally hollowed face. Drug addict? Diseased? Homeless? All the more reason to remove him as a threat. John may not have seemed much in his pale jumper and thin coat, but he was all too eager for a fight, baring his teeth at the man as he came closer. The alpha wasn't backing down. "Get away from him!" John commanded, fists clenched and ready to strike.

The alpha sneered back, sunken gaze flickering from the omega to John as his tongue darted out, licking nervous lips. He wasn't sure he would come out on top, John realised, but he wasn't willing to give up his prize. Fine, he'd add some incentive. "I'll snap your neck," he bit out between clenched teeth. Even John was surprised at his words, but they kept coming. "I won't even hesitate. I'll let you die here." He took another step forward. This time the man stepped back, the threat convincing him to abandon his claim. With the next step John took, the man turned and ran.

"Fuck, you can have the snarky bastard," Came the retreating call and John allowed himself to relax when the man was gone from sight, but couldn't quench his slight disappointment. His blood was singing. He could have won – he wouldn't have killed the man, of course not, but he'd have dealt some colourful bruises and maybe a broken bone for good measure. His fingers ached as he unclenched his fists, and his eyes snapped back to the omega. _Right. More important matters._

The man had slid down the wall while John was facing off the alpha, his head was drooped and his chest heaved in deep gulps of breath. Fuck. He smelt wonderful.

"You smell... _amazing_," John vocalised in a pained whisper before he could think about what he was saying. Shit. He bit his tongue hard and stepped back from the man, "Is there someone you can call? Anyone that can get you somewhere safe?" John tried, hoping the man was coherent enough to get himself help.

The only reply he received was a deep, sinful moan as long, pale fingers worked down the omega's thigh. "Hot," The man hissed. John's cock twitched, his skin felt like fire against the cold night air.

"Y-yeah," John muttered, his tongue sliding over dry lips. "You've got to have a phone, yeah? Come on." John stepped forward, gazing one way then the other, instincts telling him to fend off invading alphas. Ensuring no one else was approaching, John crouched over the omega and reached for his jacket pockets. As he began to dig, the omega tilted forward, his nimble fingers tightly gripping John's coat. The icy air was suddenly entirely too hot as a heated breath caressed his bare neck.

"Smells good," The deep, enchanting voice rumbled in his ear moments before a warm wetness swiped across John's skin.

"Holy fuck!" John snapped back, jerking away from the omega and stumbling back to his feet. His fingers tight around the phone he had practically ripped from the jacket pocket, and his eyes blew wide at the sight of the omega laid out before him. Pale eyes lifted to meet his and John didn't know what to do, he was pinned under the clouded, lust-hazed stare.

"Please..." The sultry voice begged.

John could. He could _so_ easily, that was the danger of being an alpha. His eyes squeezed shut and he reluctantly turned around. "No. No, no, no, no," The words came quickly as his attention shot down to the mobile, and he began quickly scrolling through the phone book. "You're not in your right mind and fuck... neither am I," He growled out. His gaze flickered over the contacts, but no names stood out. Instead, he went to last called (Lestrade, it so kindly labelled) and quickly hit redial.

As he pulled the phone to his ear, he took in a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves, but it did little when all he could smell was a ready and waiting omega. God help him. The lessons in school never prepared him for this.

"Sherlock?" A voice came over the line after four rings, sounding groggy and a bit miffed. Lestrade, he assumed, "You're not high again, are you?"

The first thing that went through John's mind was _'____Sherlock? Who names a kid 'Sherlock'?'_

The second was _'____Oh shit, he's an addict.'_

John's gaze turned to look back to the man on the ground. Sherlock. Sherlock was trying to remove his coat with little success. God, maybe he was high. "No." He said slowly, proud that his voice didn't waver, "Sorry, Sherlock's in a bit of trouble."

"What? Who is this?" The voice demanded, sounding wide awake now. "What's wrong with Sherlock?"

"He's fine, for now," John breathed out, eyes skittering between alley entrances once again. Once again, they were alone. "He was having a bit of a row. I broke it up. He's... he's a bit compromised. He's gone into... well, he's in heat."

"Oh lord." Lestrade said quickly, his voice strained, "Where are you?"

John glanced toward the mouth of the alley once more. What street was he on? Fuck, that seemed like so long ago. His eyes flickered back to Sherlock; the man had removed his jacket, now staring fervently at John as he attempted to strip his shirt. John swallowed. "James Street."

There was a groan on the other line, "He only lives two roads away from there. Can you get him back yourself? I'm already on my way. I can text the address."

John frowned, his gaze returning to Sherlock. Had he been on his way home when he was jumped? What the hell was he doing out in the first place if he'd known his heat was coming? Shit. John squeezed his eyes shut, "Yeah. Yeah, I can get him there. Just hurry, right?"

"Call me if anything happens," Lestrade hesitated then said his goodbyes, and John frowned as he listened to the line drop. Why hadn't he told Lestrade that he was an alpha? Why couldn't he just walk away now? If he didn't, he could take this man so easily. The way he was staring at John, it was becoming harder and harder to remember why he shouldn't.

He knew exactly why he couldn't leave – other alphas would come. Someone else would claim him. ___NO_. John snarled out into the cold air. No one else could have him! The phone buzzed at him and his eyes jerked down, thank _fuck _the address was close.

"Come on," John breathed out, his gaze making its way back to Sherlock once more. _Sherlock_. What a weird name, seemed to fit the man in front of him though. The tall, dark man with eyes that burned, even clouded by heat and whatever else he had in his system. A drug addict. Fuck. "Come on," He repeated, forcing Sherlock's shirt back into place. "Keep that on, you'll catch something." John's warning sounded hollow to his own ears as he snatched Sherlock's jacket and wrapped a hand around the man's upper arm. Sherlock's skin burned under his touch and John tried to ignore the whined protests coming from him as he was wrenched awkwardly to his feet. He stumbled and slumped against John, his head buried against John's neck. He staunchly ignored what the action did to his throbbing cock as he dragged Sherlock from the alley and back into the light. The street was thankfully deserted as John turned and pulled Sherlock along.

This was a test of his will, John was certain of it. He had heard stories about alphas completely losing themselves to an omega simply by scent, and being so close to Sherlock now, John no longer doubted the power it wielded over them. Alphas like John. He'd had never been near an omega in heat before that moment – he'd met loads out of it though, even dating a few of them before things turned sour. They had all smelled lovely, unique in their own way, but none of them were like _this_. It was positively overpowering.

As John paused to readjust Sherlock's weight, he allowed himself to simply bask in the scent. It smelled of smoke and spices and some sort of flower he couldn't place, there was a vague undertone of chemicals and, John determined dismally, the burning smell of cocaine. He let out a huffing breath and Sherlock tried to crowd him further as if afraid John would pull away. "Relax, alright?" he whispered, hand smoothing down Sherlock's back as they started walking again.

The address couldn't have come sooner. John thanked his lucky stars he had made it this far with the mad man clinging so tightly to him. His own head was swimming with images and thoughts and ___needs _so much that he could hardly remember what he was doing before Sherlock fell into his life. A sudden terror ripped through him when the door didn't open. _Keys. Right. Keys._ John reminded himself to keep breathing as he quickly fumbled with Sherlock's coat pocket, fingers searching their depths. What he found first was decidedly _not_ keys. He tugged free the small bag of white powder and he stared at it wide-eyed for a good five seconds before he hissed, "This is terrible for you, Sherlock."

The only reply he received was a low groan, Sherlock's hips rolling against him as his arms tightened around John's waist. Christ, he could feel the bulge pressing against him. Needing him.

"Please," The man begged against the shell of John's ear, the searing tongue sliding down his neck.

"Oh god, yes..." John groaned, "No! NO!" He quickly corrected himself, a hand lifting to shove Sherlock back against the door, "No. Fuck. Yes, but no," He choked out, gaze dropping as the lean man whined softly at him, whispering pleas with those sinful lips.

John quickly pocketed the white bag and searched the second pocket. Success! He tugged out the small ring of keys and picked the most likely candidate for the door, cursing that it took two shaky tries before the key sunk into the lock and nearly sobbing with joy when it turned with a click. _Point for John._ He shoved the door open and pushed Sherlock inside before all but slamming it behind them, scrambling to find the light switch in the dark hall.

Sherlock pounced just as he'd managed to flick it on. John's head hit the door behind him when Sherlock's lips met his in a mad rush of heat, tongue, and teeth. He groaned zealously as his hands lifted, pressing into Sherlock's hips. There was something, John tried to remember, something he was suppose to do. A low groan echoed between the two men and John realised it had been him who'd made it. Shit. Sherlock's smell, it was _ungodly_.

"Mine," He gasped as the kiss broke, John's hands dragging Sherlock closer as his hips thrust up, his cock pressed roughly against the other man's. The omega groaned out his approval.

"You are _mine_," John repeated as his nose ran along Sherlock's jaw, sliding down his neck and stopping at the crook where that amazing smell was the strongest. "Beautiful, Sherlock." He whispered, tongue sliding out to taste what he could smell, "You're amazing. All mine."

Sherlock quivered against him, "Please," He sobbed, his voice growing rougher with every passing second. John was doing this to him, he realised. Yes. He liked that _very_ much.

John's teeth were playing with the man's skin along the collarbone when three heavy knocks echoed from behind him. He immediately tensed, a deep growl leaving him before he grasped what was happening. He was taking this omega – this omega who had no control over himself. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. With sudden, painful clarity, John shoved the man away from him and whipped around, forcing himself out the door before he could second guess his resolve. Fuck, he had almost–

"Oi!"

John jerked to look up to the man in front of him, shoulders tense as he took in a trembling breath. _Omega. Bonded. Safe._ John released the lungful of air, really looking this time. Older man, hair just starting to grey, looking tired and angry. Looking angry at John. John didn't blame him.

"Sorry," John surprised himself. His voice sounded low and rough, he coughed and shook his head, "Sorry." That sounded better. "I didn't do... I didn't do anything... beyond kissing." He winced at himself, "and I didn't mean to do that," He attempted to clarify. "I'm the one who called you. Lestrade, right?"

He kept his gaze on the man; despite everything, he felt the need to guard the door against this omega. John hated that he couldn't resist the urge. Lestrade regarded him with suspicious eyes, and John could see the moment the man's nostrils flared, smelling Sherlock all over him. He wouldn't smell sex. Christ, if it had gotten that far, John would've been dragged away kicking and screaming before walking away willingly.

"You brought him all the way here?" Lestrade seemed doubtful and John couldn't blame him for that, either.

"Y-yeah. Wasn't easy." John winced. Both his and Lestrade's gaze shot to the doorknob as it began to rattle. The heavy wood pulled from John's weak limbs and he quickly grabbed onto the handle to slam it shut again. He'd resisted once, but he was no superhuman – if the man got out again, his thread-bare resolve would snap.

"...Alright." Lestrade shook his head, sounding tired again, "I guess I have to thank you, but you'd better leave. _Now_." He stepped forward, hand hovering over the doorknob as he eyed John, waiting. John found himself stuck staring at the handle, and Lestrade's hand, for far longer than was appropriate. _Let go,_ John told himself, _it's better this way._

"Right," John shook himself, taking a deep breath. An ache coiled in his chest, every bit of him was screaming out in protest as he released the door and let Lestrade take over. John quickly stepped down the onto the street, rapidly losing faith in his self-control as the door opened and closed behind him, the lock clicking loudly in place. John looked back at the door, but there was nothing to see. Sherlock was safe. That's what mattered.

_Better this way_. John took his first clean gulp of air and tried to clear his head, turning to march on stiffly. Each step hurt a little bit more than the last.

When John reached his flat ten minutes later, he was eternally glad that all the lights were out. He immediately fled to the bathroom and stripped himself of his clothes, frantic to get away from the scent. His cock had ached all the way home and showed no signs of fading any time soon, and Sherlock's smell rolled off his skin as if had seeped into every single pore. _Maddening_. He turned the cold up full blast and dove under the spray. The action almost brought a scream from his lungs, had they not seized in shock.

The iciness sunk into his bones and the shower gel washed away the last of Sherlock from his skin. His cock slowly deflated against the vicious attack, but John held out no hope that the memory of the night was going to be as easy to eradicate.

He stepped out of the shower feeling miserable, completely drained and fucking freezing. Even before the incident in the alley he'd been exhausted, but now he was certain he was going to die if he didn't find his bed soon. Shivering and dressed only in a towel, John snatched his clothes and all but ran to his room. The clothes would need to be washed, but for now he grabbed a bin bag and stuffed them inside. His fingers paused when he felt the phone in his coat pocket.

He quickly went to grab for it, his gaze locking on his hand as he tugged the unexpected items out. The plastic bag and Sherlock's phone sat staring back at him. He groaned out in misery and dropped the items on his bedside table before stuffing the coat away a bit more roughly than necessary, and decided he'd deal with it all in the morning. Or to hell with it, after the exam. Sherlock could wait.

Notes

The chapters are now beta'ed by the amazing CrackshotKate over at ao3. She has done a wonderful job fixing my horrible grammar!


	2. Chapter 2

Apparently, Sherlock couldn't wait.

There was something about tall, dark and handsome that called to John. He knew, logically, that it couldn't be anything more than hormones. He knew, logically, that Sherlock wouldn't even remember John. He knew, ___logically_, that the only reason he dreamt of inky curls and long, pale legs was because he was under the influence of that divine smell. John didn't even ___like _men.

All that logic did little to comfort him when he woke with a Sherlock-filled head and an achingly hard cock.

The alarm trilled angrily from his bedside table and John knew without looking that it was five in the morning – an hour before he was due in at the coffee shop. _Fuck_. He threw an arm out, silencing the wretched contraption with a firm smack before rolling onto his back, his erection tenting his pants obscenely.

His hand moved to brush through his wild bed hair while his eyes remained stubbornly fixed on the ceiling; he needed to think all of this through, needed to clear his head. All night he'd dreamt of the omega's tantalising scent, of claiming him, of sliding his cock between wet thighs and fucking the tall man into the bed, enticing screams and moans from plump, damnable lips. There was nothing polite about it. Nothing ___human _about it. John couldn't feel ashamed of what happened in those dreams, nor could he bring himself to pretend he didn't want every single part.

His eyes slid shut and he sunk further into the mattress with a heavy sigh. John's body had truly reached its limits, and he was bloody well going to give in its needs. Hands dropped to his hips and shoved his underwear down in a swift, practised motion, his head tilted to watch as he took himself in a firm grip. Much to John's dismay, the pressure against his cock provided only the weakest relief. If anything, it made it all _worse_. Sliding down his shaft, his fingers probed at the slight swelling at its base, John's eyebrows drew together in bafflement at the sight. His knot had swollen just enough to be seen under the skin, ready to plug a waiting omega. The tissue only expanded in response to an omega's pheromones, just further proof that the night before was still hot on John's mind.

Oh, who was he kidding? John didn't need a knot to figure that out, he'd only need to close his eyes to see the omega again. Those bright eyes hidden in the shadows, staring up at him, ___begging _him. John's hips rolled and he thrust up into his fist, fingers deftly working himself towards blessed relief; all he needed was another chance to bend Sherlock over and take him completely. To thrust hard and deep until the man was clenching around him, taking his knot and crying his name.

"Oh, fuck," John gasped, arching from the bed as his cock spilled across his stomach and chest, his hand working his throbbing member through the orgasm. As his taut muscles eased into sublime relaxation for the first time in days, his chest heaved with relief. _Damn, that felt good._

John winced a little as his hypersensitive cock softened under the attention of his fingers. He eased his hand away and left his arm to flop bonelessly against the bed. He let himself enjoy the post-orgasmic bliss as his thoughts returned to the events of the previous night, and as much as his genitals might have hated him for it, John was proud of his own restraint. No omega deserved to be raped in the middle of an alley, no matter how idiotic they were for wandering around during a heat. John had no idea why the guy was out there and he wasn't entirely sure he even wanted to know, especially after discovering the contents of his pockets. That was the end of it. John should just be happy he made it out with his pride intact and leave it at that.

Feeling a bit better, he stretched out and grabbed the towel he'd abandoned the night before, cleaning himself up before finally dragging himself out of bed. Time to get back to his life.

Forty five minutes later, John was sliding behind the counter of the coffee shop, half-heartedly tying the apron up behind him as he gave a tired (but hopefully not grumpy) smile to his companion for the shift. "Morning, Molly," he hummed to the small brunette as he started on his usual morning ritual behind the bar. After six months, it all becomes ritual. His flatmates had teased him about the job when he first accepted it – it hadn't exactly been the exciting sort of work John had hoped for, but it was the first place to offer him a job so he'd grabbed it before anyone could change their mind. As it turned out, John was a quick study and managed fairly well in the service industry, at least that was what he had been told in his last review. He could admit, though, he did enjoy the atmosphere and the smells that came with the coffee shop. The place wasn't overly large and catered mostly to students and faculty, so John had the chance to get to know the regulars. More than once a few words and a charming smile had won the number off a good looking girl.

"Hi, John," Molly pulled him from his thoughts, practically beaming at him. Always the chipper one in the morning. John wished he knew her secret, highly suspecting that she attacked the espresso machine when no one was looking. "Long night last night?" She asked with a touch of concern as she studied John's face. He worried over what she might be seeing.

"Trying to catch up on revision." John shrugged off the fretting, his eyes flickering to the first customer to come trudging in for their morning pick-me-up.

After that, things began to flow as they always did. It was easy to put the events of the night behind him as the current of customers remained steady through the early morning. By the time he clocked out at noon, John was so concerned about his exam again that he had almost forgotten to mark himself down for extra hours over the holidays. He suspected they wouldn't need him as much as he needed his wages, especially with the majority of their patrons being away for Christmas, but it wouldn't hurt to mark himself available.

He retrieved his old jumper from his locker and slipped it over his head, making his way back out the door. The sun had made a rare appearance over London and the air was much fairer than the night before, so he decided it probably wouldn't kill him to walk back to the flat this time. He cursed himself for not thinking of bringing his books with him and stowing them in his locker for after his shift – he always got more work done at the library.

John was lamenting his mistake when he heard hurried steps behind him. His head swivelled around to see Molly attempting to catch him up.

"Oh, hi, John," Molly gave a nervous smile as John stopped to face her. He gave her a questioning glance, but the smile became more genuine and relaxed under his regard. "I was just thinking we could, you know, walk together?" She asked, "Just to the bus stop?" she clarified quickly as her eyes skittered down the pavement and away from John.

He couldn't help but grin at her. Molly was a sweet omega, but not the one for John – at most she made a decent acquaintance. Could he say friend? Maybe. They hadn't done much talking outside of work, they didn't exactly fit into the same circles. "Yeah, sure," He finally shrugged. "I wasn't planning on taking the bus, actually, but its on the way. I'll walk with you as far as I can."

Molly breathed a sigh at that, her steps moving in sync with John's as they started walking again. "You alright?" John asked with a cursory look. She almost seemed relieved by his response.

"Oh, fine," Molly answered quickly, her hand waving John off before they brushed down her hips and settled to her side, "I just like a bit of company and I saw you, so..." she trailed off with a shrug, shoulders scrunching as she returned her gaze to the path ahead of her.

John let the subject drop at that. It wasn't his business to pry and he really didn't want to goad any long talks out of her. He had an exam to focus on, after all. John frowned at himself. Well that was rude, what if she needed someone to talk to? John gave her another sidelong glance. She looked fine and had said so herself, so maybe he was just over thinking the situation.

He nodded at his own decision. They had fallen into a lull of conversation anyway, so John let his mind wander again. He had the whole afternoon to study before the last exam tomorrow, and once it was done, he could breathe again. Perhaps it was better he stayed inside the flat tonight; he was sure that if he spent another all-nighter in the library, he'd just end up reminding himself of Sherlock.

_Sherlock_.

John drew in a breath. "Molly, how soon can you tell that you're about to go into heat?"

"What?" Molly swung her eyes back upon John, looking mildly horrified. John clenched his jaw, blush spreading across his cheeks. Oh god, what did he just ask?

"Sorry. I am _so_ sorry. I didn't mean... you don't have to answer..." He made a decent effort at staring a hole into a distant tree. Molly, poor, likely traumatised Molly, was silent for a long moment, all the while John tried to work out what had prompted him to ask such a personal question. If anything crossed the 'friends' boundary, that was it.

"Why do you want to know?" Molly finally asked, her voice quieter this time.

"No, just... just forget it." John shook his head, "I really shouldn't have-"

"Well, if you're interested..." Molly shrugged again, "I begin to notice about a day before anything starts to... change."

John let out a low sigh, why the hell was he doing this to himself? "So... you would know. Not to go out, I mean?"

"John?" Molly turned and looked straight at him now. Apprehension clouded her voice when she spoke again. "Did... something happen?"

Oh, god. John had promised himself he would let this ___go_. "Yeah." He finally groaned, "Last night. There was an omega."

"In heat? Oh, John! What did you do?" Molly, bless her heart, was worried about the guy. John held up his hands, placating her anxiety.

"Its alright, I got him help. I just couldn't figure out what he was doing out in the open in the first place." John sighed. _Right. Keep walking. Focus on beating down the blush on your face._ "He should have known, right?"

Molly maintained her uneasy look, but continued to step in time with John as she considered his words. She was chewing on her thumb as if out of habit. "I couldn't say," She finally glanced to John, "Maybe... he just didn't sense it in time... or... thought he had long enough to get home?" She offered blind reasons, there was always some small excuse when attacks like these get reported in the news. John could only nod in response.

"I'm glad," Molly offered again, "I'm glad you were able to help him."

John felt a small twitch of a smile jump across his expression, "Yeah. Me too." What else could he say? He knew what she was implying. She was glad he hadn't attacked the omega like some savage animal.

They finished their walk in silence, and it was only a _little _bitawkward. He waited until he and Molly had finally parted ways before allowing himself a sigh of relief. _That could have gone better._ It was Sherlock again. John shook his head and made it a vow ___not _to think about the man for the remainder of the day.

John managed to break his vow only three separate times on his way home. If he somehow avoided a certain area where pheromones might still be lingering, well, that was because his detour was shorter anyway.

He let out a puff of air as he crossed into the living room. Bill Murray was lounging on the sofa as he passed by, watching some daytime rubbish on the tiny telly they shared. John didn't know how the man could stand the ratty old piece of crap sofa, it smelt absolutely awful. Like rotten eggs and half dead... things. They had all mused over the idea of ditching it and using milk crates as furniture instead.

"John!" Bill waved him down as he passed, "Your damn phone keeps beeping. I had half a mind to go in there and chuck it out the window." John snorted. Bill was the second and only other alpha in the flat share and they had managed to become friends despite the cramped living space, partly due to their mutual respect for one another. That respect extended to their personal space, so John knew the man would never go into his room without permission, no matter how much he threatened.

John paused halfway out of the room, turning to gave Bill a considering glance. _Phone?_ _My phone's in my... oh._ "Sorry, I'll go put it on silent." He waved off Bill's returning grunt before heading up the stairs; he had forgotten all about the phone after last night. Perhaps wishing it would go away on its own wasn't the best method of dealing with the situation.

He stepped into the small room and set his eyes on the imposing, glossy device beside his bed. _Brand new model._ It seemed so obvious now, he wondered how he had missed it before he left that morning. Sitting right beside it was the small bag of white powder. John frowned at the sight of it. Choosing to ignore the bag for now, he picked up the phone, thumb quickly swiping over the screen to unlock it. Maybe Lestrade was looking for it, because Sherlock certainly wouldn't be. Not for another day at least. His eyes scanned over the messages lined up in his inbox – none from Lestrade, but there were several texts lamenting Sherlock's disappearance. Even more were making propositions. John huffed at it, suddenly feeling like he was invading the man's privacy. He quickly mashed the power button and let the phone shut down before dropping the ghastly thing into the top drawer of his bedside table.

He'd just... return it in a few days. When it was safe. He reached out for the phone again but hesitated, instead picking up the plastic bag, turning it in his hand. John certainly wasn't going to return this, but he wasn't going to hold onto it either. He tracked his way back down to the bathroom where he flushed the contents of the bag, washed it out, and dumped it in the bin. _There_. Like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, John felt better almost instantly.

He headed back up the stairs and closed himself off in his room, swiping his book-heavy bag up and dropping down onto the middle of his bed. It was time to focus. _One more day._ John turned his eyes in the direction of the phone one last time, realising that he was becoming increasingly impatient for another meeting with the mysterious Sherlock. Good or bad, he was determined to speak to the man behind the previous night's madness without the haze of biology clouding their minds. _Soon_, John soothed his anticipation. Right now he needed to get through this last bloody exam.

Notes

The chapters are now beta'ed by the amazing CrackshotKate over at ao3. She has done a wonderful job fixing my horrible grammar!


	3. Chapter 3

John kept his nose in the textbooks for the rest of the afternoon. The longer the hours wore on the more everything faded and meshed together, but John pressed deeper and deeper into his reviews until he was certain he could write an entire manuscript on the parasympathetic nervous system alone. He was determined be ready because he _knew_ he could pass, he'd worked too damn hard not to. That night, John fell asleep with his face buried in his dog-eared copy of 'Principles and Practice of Medicine', dreaming of exam papers raining from the sky.

The next morning, after all the time John took to prepare for the bloody thing, the actual exam passed in a short blur of diagrams and discussions. He was so dazed by it all that once he'd turned in his paper to the invigilator and walked out of the lecture theatre, John couldn't remember what exactly was on the test in the first place. He was fairly certain he had done well though, so he took the idea to heart and ended his semester on a high note. Disappointment could wait until results were posted online the following week.

Now the exam was finally over and done with, John swept through his shift at the coffee shop in high spirits and the smile he wore was a bit more genuine than it had been the previous day as he greeted passing customers. The day developed with far less drama than he'd feared it might and by the time he was packing to go home, John was thinking he might have made a big deal out of nothing after all.

On that thought, John checked the messages on his phone. The only one was from Mike: he and the others were already at the pub, the bastards couldn't wait for him to get home so he had to meet them there. John checked the time stamp – it had only been half an hour since he'd received it. He shook his head, pulled on his jumper, and headed out the back door of the shop.

The pub was a familiar stomping ground of John and the boys; being close to the flat had been a plus, but what he liked most was the cheep tap and the constant streaming of Sky Sports. His empty wallet haunted him even here though, more times than he cared for John had played the responsible, sober one among the others simply because he couldn't afford the alcohol to get himself more than pleasantly buzzed. He put up a fuss sometimes, but he didn't mind as much as he made out, for a while now he had been careful about the amount of alcohol he put into his system – ever since his sister started showing up to family holidays completely sloshed. Harry still claimed that she'd sobered up since the last time, but that hadn't been enough to repair the rift the disaster had caused in their already fragile relationship. Even so, sometimes it was alright to just let go. Maybe after the last few days, tonight would be a good night to do just that.

John was already shaking those thoughts out of his head when he stepped out of the cold air and into the warm light of the pub. Scrubbing the chill out of his hands, John let his attention wander of the room; the sound of the football on the oversized flat screen played over the buzz of conversation. The pub was particularly heaving for a Friday night and John couldn't immediately see his friends, so he squeezed his way to the overcrowded bar for a drink as his gaze roamed the tables.

When he reached the front, he folded his arms cautiously over the sticky bar and signaled to the tender as his eyes drifted over to his left. _Oh, hello. _John found himself smiling automatically. Sitting there, just one bar stool down, was a lovely red haired woman. When she glanced in his direction, John could see blue eyes. "Hi," John lifted a hand to her when he had caught her eye – or rather when she caught him staring. "Come here often?" His voice raised to be heard over the conversations around them.

The pick up was older than dirt, but the girl smiled at him regardless. _Good start_, John mused. "No, actually," she waved her hand towards the entrance John came in from, "My friend wanted a night out and I was roped in. This isn't usually my thing."

"Then I'll have to thank your friend when they get here." John gave her a sideways smile when he turned his attention to the full glass set in front of him. He fished out a fiver from his pocket and laid it down for the bartender, then took his pint then as he moved down to the recently vacated bar stool beside the woman. Beta, John was close enough to pick out her scent from the background, "John Watson."

"Sarah," She said, her full attention on John now, "Sarah Sawyer. Do you go to the university?"

John finished off his first beer making small talk with the girl at the bar. He learned that she was in her third year of her MBBS, out celebrating for the same reasons John and his mates were: the end of a semester of hard work. Tomorrow, Sarah would be getting the train to her mother's in Brighton for the holidays, she wouldn't be back until January and had promised the night out with her friend. By the time said friend did show up (another beta with dark skin and wild, curly black hair) John was lamenting his bad luck. Sarah wasn't looking for something like John tonight.

He was ordering his second beer and letting his thoughts wander back to his missing friends when he heard a familiar voice.

"John, where've you been?" Mike thumped a hand against John's shoulder as he came up to the bar beside him, "We're in the back, usual table got snatched."

"Sorry, just got here," John fibbed a bit as he pulled out his wallet to pay for the second round. "I'm coming now." He laid down the crumpled note and climbed off the stool, and had only taken a few steps when Sarah was calling his attention again.

"John," She smiled when he looked at her again, and she quickly turned her attention back to her bag while she fished out something to write on. He watched as she pulled out a notepad and scribbled down a number._ Fantastic._ "I'll be back on the third. Give me a call some time." She ripped the paper, folded it in half, and passed it over to John with a coy smirk.

"Of course," he grinned as he pocketed the slip of paper, "Have a great break, Sarah."

He and Mike made their way towards the back of the pub, Mike smacking his hand on John's shoulder the whole way. A great laugh tumbled out of the man – Mike had definitely been drinking, "My god, John, that's a record. How the hell do you pull that off?"

John didn't bother to answer the man as he followed him back to the table. His expression turned neutral to cover his embarrassment, hoping Sarah hadn't seen the show Mike was putting on. From what he'd found out she was a sweet girl, John was definitely going to lose his chance with her if his arsehole mates made her feel like just a random catch. Since he'd moved in with the boys, John had gained a reputation of sorts when it came to picking up women, but he hardly saw himself as a playboy – he wanted to find the right girl to call his own. He'd met loads since starting uni and while some of them had been fun at the time, nothing ever lasted. There were always reasons to call things off: no time between lectures, no money for dates, different goals in life, different expectations, different interests. He had heard as many excuses from his past partners as he'd used himself. His mates called him talented, but John just treated the girls he met like human beings rather than conquests, and it was hardly rocket science as to why that worked out for him.

Something seemed to click with Sarah though, John would definitely call her. He was already worrying over the number in his pocket, thinking it should be transferred it to his wallet for safekeeping, but as he reached for it again he heard a familiar call from Bill.

"John! There you are!" Bill's voice boomed over the rabble of the bar and John started from his thoughts. Leaving the precious folded paper for now, he looked up to the man in the corner booth. With him sat the smaller, thinner Jack Miller – the last and the most passive of his flatmates, and John raised his glass in greeting as he slid in beside the two of them. "Where the hell have you been?" His rowdy friend's voice had yet to return to acceptable levels.

"Found him flirting with another one," Mike gossiped like a teenage girl. John glowered at him for it, but the effect was lost on the beta. "Got her number and everything."

The three had a laugh and poked at John about the poor girl, but his unwillingness to play along put a stop to the teasing relatively quickly. After that, the conversation moved to lighter things and John finally felt like he could relax among his friends. The rest of the night was filled with talk of the semester they'd survived, the one coming up, and what they would all be doing during the break in between. Mike kept talking about his 'girl back home', while Bill complained about his brothers with increased vulgarities as the night wore on. Though John had considered splurging earlier, it really didn't seem worth it in the end, so he finished the night on three beers and helped the others drag Bill sputtering and cursing from the bar and all the way home.

* * *

The next morning, John woke at seven only because he'd forgotten to turn off his alarm the day before. He had nowhere to be that day, timetabled lessons were over and he wasn't rota'd in at the shop, so he stretched out luxuriously under the warmed sheets and briefly considered the unfamiliar indulgence of going back to sleep. John quickly dismissed the idea and rolled onto his side with a groan, his gaze zeroing in on the top drawer of his side table. He'd miraculously managed to spend the night without the perplexing man constantly on his mind but now, in the early hours of a new day, John felt almost giddy with the idea of seeing Sherlock. It probably wasn't healthy, the almost _obsession_ John had found himself in. It wasn't like he was expecting to fall in love with the guy and live happily ever after, he adamantly told himself, he was just desperate to know why the man had acted so idiotically, why he'd felt the need for a mid-heat stroll, why he was using – he felt that once he'd got answers the damn thing would stop plaguing him.

John nodded at the conclusion and climbed from the tangle of his sheets, quickly grabbing a change of clothes and fleeing to the bathroom before his mates could wake up and hog the hot water.

After the shower, John headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on before digging up some (only just out of date) bread to shove in the toaster. The flat was quiet at the moment, but only because of the early hour. Both Bill and Jack were due out in the afternoon and Mike the next day, so that was what John would be living with for the break.

He was thinking about Sherlock again when he sat down at the cluttered kitchen table. Would his heat be over now? Would it be safe to visit today? It had been more than two days and heats, according to secondary school sex-ed, generally lasted no more than a day and a half every month. How much of that should he trust? Perhaps he could look it up online? He considered waiting until that afternoon to visit, just to be sure, though John didn't want to wait too long – Sherlock might just write off the phone John still had in his bedside table and get a new one. Could he? The phone was almost brand new. Was he the type who could afford new gadgets at the drop of a hat, or was it a special gift? John tried to remember what sort of vibe he'd gotten from the man or his flat, but all of it was a big blur. In the end, he gave up with a sigh – just another question he needed an answer for.

Breakfast eaten and plates washed, John was on his way up the stairs to fetch his keys and a jumper for a morning walk when he heard his phone ringing. He quickened his step the rest of the way and grabbed the phone on the third ring, checking the name before hitting 'answer'. "Beth, is everything okay?" John answered as he moved to sit at the edge of his bed. Beth was the manager from the coffee shop. Not John's favorite person in the world, but not the worst either.

"John, can you come to work today? Molly's called in sick and we're a bit short." Beth was straight to the point, though there was an edge to her voice that told John he hadn't been the first one she had called. Good luck to him, then, he wasn't going to turn down an extra shift.

"Yeah, I've got nothing planned," John smiled when he heard the huff of relief coming from the other side of the line. "Need me to come in now?"

"If you don't mind," Beth said quickly, "Her shift ends at twelve. See you soon."

The call ended before John had the chance to say anything else. John got up and set the phone on the bedside table before grabbing his work uniform. He ended up making his bed too before he snatched his wallet, phone and keys from their various hiding places. After a second thought, John tugged Sherlock's phone out of the top drawer to bring as well. That way he could stop by on the way home.

Opting to take the bus instead of manoeuvring the innumerable tourists on foot, John ended up arriving at work only fifteen minutes after the call – much to his manager's relief . He dropped the phones into his locker and let himself forget about Sherlock for just a few hours more.

The shift hadn't been half as bad as Beth implied it would be, though the woman always had a flair for the dramatics. By mid-morning, John found himself watching the clock as the minutes ticked by agonisingly slowly. He made small talk to fill in the gaps between customers, finding out from Beth that Molly had called in sick quite suddenly that morning. Much to John's discomfort she strongly hinted that it was the girl's time of the month and he struggled to contain the rising blush in memory of the conversation he'd had with her only two days before.

John would be lying if he said he wasn't counting down the minutes of his last hour. All the anticipation was killing him, what exactly was he expecting from it all? He had no guarantee the man wouldn't just slam the door in his face. John grumbled at that thought, but it did manage to taper down his excitement as he fetched his things from his locker. Sherlock's phone the last thing he grabbed. Turning it over in his hand and heading out the back door, John wondered if all of this huffing and puffing was worth it. He wasn't some hormone-wrecked teenager crushing over a first love. Is that what omega's really did to alphas? He had heard stories all his life; it was part of the culture and history of the world. He thought he'd understood it, but now that he'd experienced it first hand he didn't know what to think. It would most likely be in everyone's best interest to just forget about the omega and toss the bloody phone – the damned bastard deserved it for his carelessness.

John looked down to the mobile still in his hand, it dawned on him then that he was still holding it in his hand with exciting anticipation halfway between work and Sherlock's flat. _God damn it_. John let out a frustrated grunt and slipped the phone into his pocket. Fine, he would go to Sherlock and he would find out all he wanted to know, then he'd wash his hands of the infuriating mess.

The door John did remember, hell, the entire address was burned into his memory. He glanced over the outside of the building, then down either side of the pavement. _Right, enough stalling._ He stepped up to the door and knocked, firm and quick. While he waited, he pulled the sleek phone from his pocket and turned it over in his hands as time slid by. After a few minutes John was considering whether to knock again when he heard the lock turn. His gaze lifted to meet the man who had been running through his head for days.

He was a disaster.

Standing in the doorway was a man utterly unlike the omega John had met in the alley; his posture was slumped and he was far too thin to be healthy. A black, silk dressing gown hung halfway off bare shoulders and laid undone over gray pyjama bottoms – which looked as if they should fit if he actually had a decent amount of body fat. Bags hung under pale drained eyes and features were gaunt and strained under damp, inky locks. The black of his wet hair and silk dressing gown only seemed to intensify the almost transparent quality of his skin. In short: Sherlock was a complete mess.

John stepped back and regarded the man in front of him; he was nothing like the lusty, handsome man from John's visions. In fact, the sight of him now did wonders in breaking the enchanting hold their first meeting held over him. Still trying to reconcile the now conflicting images of Sherlock, John missed the moment the man suddenly held out a long, thin hand, fingers twitching just enough to come off as an unconscious action.

John's gaze dropped to the hand, then back up to the man's foggy gaze again. What exactly was he doing? John was still staring when Sherlock heaved a put on sigh that sounded down right insulting while he propped himself against the door frame. "The phone," The man's voice droned in a bored, rough tone. "You're here to return it."

"Oh, right," John started out of his thoughts._ Caught staring like a fool, John_. He grumbled at himself as he dropped the phone in the waiting hand. "Sorry, I accidentally nicked it off you the other night." He let his hands drop as he watched, the gaunt man didn't reply, he didn't seem to even hear John as he turned on the phone. John was at a loss now, standing there before the silent man. Maybe he just wasn't welcome? "Well, I just wanted to give it back, I-" John looked up to the man's eyes again and stopped. Those pale – blue? No, there was green there too – eyes were staring into his own now, looking at him so intensely that John thought those eyes might be seeing into John's very soul. "I'm..." John was grasping at straws now, "John. John Watson."

Sherlock's focused gaze fell over John, seeking out something specific? Whatever he was looking for, or whether he found it, John didn't know. The exchange was quick and it ended as Sherlock suddenly whirled around in a flash of twirling robe and stomped back into his flat. The door was left wide open behind him and it took John a moment to catch up with all that just happened. "Hey!" He called as he stepped into the doorway, "You just left your door open!"

"Of course, John!" Came the annoyed response from somewhere inside the first floor flat. "Come in and shut it!"

_What?_ John stood there, confounded. Was Sherlock inviting him in? He eyed the door suspiciously.

"Quickly!" The bristly voice sounded edged with irritation now. _Impatient._ John's picture of the mysterious Sherlock was starting to become both clearer and very, very muddy at the same time.

He knew he would regret it, yet there he was stepping into the hall, closing and locking the door behind him as he went. Well, things hadn't exactly started the way John had expected them to, but maybe he was going to get the conversation he had hoped for after all. With the way things were going though, he wondered if he still needed the talk as much as he thought he had. The guy was just another junkie. The meeting in the alley had to be the result of a terrible addiction and nothing more.

As much as John wanted to accept that answer, there was still something drawing him in, demanding some better explanation for what had happened between them. John hated it, he felt he was only going to be disappointed.

Stepping through the hall and through the open door, what greeted him was grounds to expel Sherlock from whatever lease he had signed for the flat. The living area was in shambles. John felt he had to stop at the door for fear that any further and he'd step on something. It wasn't just negligence, either. It was clear that someone – Sherlock – had gone absolutely mad in the room. There wasn't a clear spot on the floor and several pieces of furniture were overturned; John saw that a leg had been ripped from an upside down coffee table, but the leg itself was nowhere to be seen. There was a vase broken and scattered near his feet, painting shredded and an entire bookshelf content was strewn out in front of the fireplace. Judging by the remains within the hearth, it seemed like several books hadn't come out lucky in the ordeal.

"Bad day?" John inquired as he let his attention return to the man sitting in the middle of the mess like the eye of a storm, utterly unashamed. Sherlock had settled on the corner of a sofa that had been pulled away from the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest with bare feet sat on the cushion, complete focus now on the phone while thumbs worked deftly over the touchscreen. Like this he almost seemed young, younger than the age John had put him at in his mind – a few years John's senior.

Sherlock did not reply to John's question.

Fine. John attempted to quell the frustration of being ignored. What was wrong with him that he was now so easy to ignore? Standing a bit straighter, he explored the living room again, this time taking in a deep breath. There was a distinct 'Sherlock' smell that was undoubtedly omega, but the smell was not overpowering and intoxicating as it had been that night. At the moment, it was just pleasant and John sighed out the breath again. Well, he shouldn't just stand here like an idiot, he needed something to do. Tidying up was _not_ going to happen, so John opted for stepping over the mess towards the kitchen, "If you're going to ignore me, I'll just make myself some tea."

"Two sugars," Came the drone from the sofa. John shot the man a brief glare over his shoulder. Oh, _now_ he speaks. His fingers clenched and unclenched until he lost the urge to snap back, it wouldn't do him any good when Sherlock had likely gone back to ignoring him. On some level he was listening, though, and John took that to heart as he picked through the kitchen drawers. Several were ripped from their runners and shattered glass crunched under his shoes. The kettle had remained surprisingly untouched so John filled it before he went in search of two mugs and the tea bags.

"Did you do all this after I left?" John called as he checked the usual places for mugs. Finding one, he set it by the kettle and scoured the kitchen for another. No answer came from the other room, not that John was expecting one. Head shaking, John pulled a mug from the sink and looked it over. There was a sizeable crack running down the side, but it could still hold liquid, so he cleaned it out and set it with its twin while the kettle boiled. "You look like you had a fit, honestly. What was the point? Now you have this mess to clear up." John kept on talking, it made him feel slightly less like he was invading some stranger's house while being completely ignored.

The sugar was even more of a nightmare to hunt down than the mugs, and the milk in the fridge rattled when John shook the carton – he really didn't want to know why – so his excursion into the kitchen hadn't been completely successful. Nevertheless, John returned with two mugs in hand and picked his way over to the sofa. The unmarked mug he gave to Sherlock (or rather he set on the table beside Sherlock) before he brushed down the only other upright piece of furniture, a dusty old chair with a union jack pillow, and sat down. He waited then, ready for something to happen as he watched the dark haired wonder tap away on his phone. Every so often his eyebrows would twitch or his lips would fidget into some semblance of an expression but through it all he remained stubbornly silent and willfully ignorant to John's scrutiny – he hadn't touched the tea either. It made the alpha in John grumble when the omega wasn't accepting his peace offering.

"So..." John couldn't take the silence, if he was going to be ignored then why was he invited in in the first place? It raised a challenge in John and he couldn't help himself any more, "Are you pissed off because you lost the cocaine?"

"You _took_ it," Sherlock practically hissed as his lips twitched into a sharp snarl. _Ah, there it was. _

"Honestly, I didn't mean to, but yes, I took it." John straightened a bit in his chair, "You weren't exactly in your right mind. I wasn't about to let some addict get himself raped in the middle of an alley. What are you doing with drugs like that anyway?"

What happened next, John could only explain as an explosion. Sherlock leapt from the sofa in a flurry of arms, legs, and black silk and he drew himself up to his full height, a long, bony finger thrust towards John while his expression turned sharp and bitter. Those eyes were suddenly smoldering as they stared through him. "I will not be lectured by you, John Watson!" The man prowled forward and John quickly jumped to his feet, lest he be cornered in the old chair. He may not have been tall, but like hell he was going to be bullied by _anyone_, let alone this testy addict. He let out a warning growl when Sherlock drew too close.

"Maybe you should listen to a lecture once in a while, you might learn something," John snapped back, eyes tracking the man as he began to pace through the room – oblivious to the debris littering the floor under his bare feet.

"I don't need to learn _anything_ from you," Sherlock waved his hands wildly before they drove through his wild, damp curls, "I see everything I need to know and I don't need to be _lectured_!"

"What does that even mean? Sherlock, I don't even know-"

"It _means_, John, that I know you! I know you're a medical student with interest in surgery still attending the University of London going on..." Sherlock rolled his head, "at least a year, probably more." The words spilled out of him like a waterfall, once it started it just kept going and John could only stand there in a daze. "You come from a working class family with an older brother, but you don't get along with him. You don't like to visit, you don't even like to call home and that makes you feel guilty.

"Your maintenance loans aren't enough to cover your living costs so you try supplement the difference by working at a coffee shop, but you don't know how long that will be enough and it scares you." Sherlock turned and gave John a final look over, his expression had relaxed during the onslaught of deductions. He only looked smug now.

"Just because your brother has his own addiction doesn't give you the right to preach to me about what I do in my spare time. You don't even know me."

The silence that followed could be cut with a knife. John stared at the man now preening under John's shock while he flicked off shards of glass from the mantel place. John's expression gained focus as the surprise began to fade. He started to nod a slow, purposed agreement, "Right... that was absolutely... right. Brilliant."

"What?" Sherlock's eyes were narrowed upon John now.

"I don't know how, but Jesus, that was astounding." John was shaking his head now as he mused over what had just happened. It was absolutely brutal. Who _was_ this man? "How did you know? You couldn't have found all that out in the last two days."

"I told you, John," Sherlock grumbled, but the tone he took was far more subdued than the previous anger filled rant, "I don't have to _learn_." John felt the sudden urge to roll his eyes, "I observe."

"Right, then how did you observe all that?" John questioned, genuinely curious. The tension seemed to have melted away, so he relaxed his stance again, reaching for the tea he'd set beside Sherlock's untouched mug. Before the man answered, his phone made a beeping alert and, just like that, John lost Sherlock's attention to the sodding thing. He wasn't going to admit that he was a bit disappointed, suddenly feeling like he wasn't going to find out how Sherlock read him like an open book.

John didn't have long to stand there in silence. Like a switch had been pressed, Sherlock was suddenly dashing across the room and vanishing through the hall John assumed lead to a bedroom. He was left staring after him in a ruined living room. So he'd been forgotten again, or perhaps he was just being ignored. John huffed out a curse before he turned and grabbed the mugs of tea – one untouched and the other with barely two sips missing – and carried them both into the kitchen to wash them out in the sink. Like hell he was going to touch Sherlock's mess, but he was hardly the sort to leave his mess for others to deal with.

The two mugs were just set on the shelf when John heard Sherlock's heavy stomping echo into the living room again. This time it sounded like he had shoes on to cross over the mess. John turned around and what he saw caused him pause, he was eternally thankful he'd just put the mugs down. Sherlock had changed and the image was almost a complete transformation; gone were the loose robes and too big pyjamas that made him appear anorexic and in their place was an outfit John could call sinful. The trousers fit him like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination and made his arse – no. _No_. John stamped down the line of thought before it got any further. He skipped his evaluation on Sherlock's shirt and instead focused on the leather jacket – it seemed safest set of observations to follow. The rich black material was clearly new, John could smell the fine leather from across the room. He finished his appraisal with Sherlock's face, still pale and gaunt, but his thoughts stuttered when he found that the man was watching him with those reading eyes and a smirk that looked a hell of a lot like trouble to John.

"Where are you going?" John probably shouldn't have asked, wasn't really his business.

"Out." Sherlock essentially confirmed John's unspoken thoughts: it wasn't. John scrunched his nose in a lack of witty response and watched as Sherlock crossed the living room, only to disappear through the hall. He heard the front door open then slam shut, and was suddenly alone in a stranger's house.

This whole scenario was ridiculous and Sherlock was just... mental. John leaned back against the kitchen worktop and simply took a minute to figure out what kind of person he had just met. He was utterly infuriating and a right bastard and he'd established _that _after only a few minutes of speaking to, or being ignored by him. At the same time, Sherlock was clearly the most brilliant man he had ever met – given what he'd said about John were actually deductions and not some clever party trick. John wanted to know, he really did, but he didn't think he could put up with another meeting to find out.

It was time to leave – standing alone in the omega's bombsite of a home was getting slightly creepy. He straightened and made his way out of the flat, making sure to lock the door behind him as he went. A part of him hoped Sherlock hadn't taken his keys. That would serve him right, John thought with a shake of his head as he stepped back onto the street. Now he could let this all go, he probably wasn't going to see Sherlock ever again anyway.

Notes

The chapters are now beta'ed by the amazing CrackshotKate over at ao3. She has done a wonderful job fixing my horrible grammar!


	4. Chapter 4

"Johnnyyy! Answer your phone, Mr. big-shot doctor!"

John shut his eyes against the slurred voice coming over the line – Harry, drunk dialing him and leaving a voice mail at two o'clock Christmas morning. It wasn't until John woke up at eight that he saw the bloody alert and, still half asleep, he'd considered just deleting the damn thing and pretend he'd never saw it in the first place. He hadn't, but now he wished he had.

"Merry Christmas, Johnny," his sister continued to shout over the obnoxious beat of heavy bass in the background. John pressed a hand against bleary eyes – she hadn't been keeping her promise of sobriety. John had already guessed when she avoided his questions on his last e-mail, but this was just ridiculous.

"You're supposed to caaall! I want to tell you about this fantastic girl I met! Oh she snogs me senseless, baby brother! She–"

At that, John mashed the phone viciously, turning the message off, and tossed it across the bed. It overshot and clattered to the floor, but John couldn't be arsed to get up and find it. He wasn't awake enough to deal with disappointment, so with fleeting concern as to how his sister got home, he stuffed the message to the back of his mind and climbed out of bed. The floor was freezing and John hissed out his discomfort as he danced across the room and downstairs to the toilet.

Christmas came and went for John like any other day. It was hard to celebrate the occasion without someone to spend it with. He'd briefly considered buying the small plastic tree he'd seen in a shop window on his way home the day before, but it didn't feel worth the money when he'd just pack it away or chuck it a few days later.

After the morning's fiasco, he put off calling Harry – not that she would notice, she'd be hung over for most of the day – and skipped to his mum. The conversation was dismal as expected: she gave a half-hearted effort to sound interested in John's progress and in turn he promised to come visit her and dad soon – soon being a relative term.

The call was the unfortunate highlight of his Christmas. In the end, John had a sandwich for both lunch and dinner and went for a chilling walk near sunset to enjoy the Christmas lights while they were still relevant. A brief consideration went into a visit to the pub on his way back to the flat, but it just didn't seem worth the effort. The night ended with John watching Christmas specials and flicking through his phone book, musing over names to call, but there was no one he was close enough to, not to interrupt their Christmas, anyway.

Two days before the new year, John finally got his next shift at the coffee shop. He had certainly gone half mad during the down time – his room was spotless now, along with the kitchen and the living room. He found himself willing the semester to start again quickly just so he would have his life back – it wasn't exciting, but it was _something_. John regretted his wish to have the flat all to himself.

The shop hours were a dreary reminder that the holidays were still upon London. People trickled in slowly from the drizzling rain, leaving John plenty of time in between to fuss over cleaning the counters and listening to Molly gossip and drift from subject to subject; the chatter filled the quiet and John appreciated the company after the lengthy silence of the last few days.

When time rolled on towards closing, John began the usual motions of cleaning up, but it was hardly a difficult task given how slow the day had been. It was five minutes to close and the shop was empty when John heard the familiar jingle and the brief rush of cold air that signaled a new customer. He set down the wash cloth as he turned to meet the customer. "Hi, What can I- uh..."

John's words faltered when he met the familiar pale eyes staring back at him. _Sherlock_. The tall omega strolled towards the counter with confidence and sway that John could never hope to master. The new leather jacket was speckled with raindrops as it wrapped around a deep purple shirt that looked like it would simply pop open if he stretched just so, and jeans that clung to him like a second skin. John pushed down the rush of excitement welling in his chest, Sherlock looked like he _owned _the place as he came to rest across the counter from John, eyes locked upon his. _What is he doing here?_

"Tea." The man leaned over the counter surface upon crossed arms.

"What?"

"You where asking what I wanted. Tea. Small." Sherlock answered with short words while his expression turned amused in the wake of John's confusion.

"Right. You want that to go?" _Just ignore the fact that you know where I work, then_. John was struggling to find his footing against the alluring omega in front of him. Christ, what was wrong with him? He shouldn't be this excited about seeing the pompous arsehole. With his back turned to Sherlock, John began to brew the tea with practiced ease. The familiar motions brought John back into the moment and he smiled when he asked, "two sugars?" He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder while Sherlock confirmed the question with a hum, followed by stark silence. In less than a minute, John had set the paper cup down before the lounging man. Sherlock picked it up with long, nimble fingers and stretched back to his full height once more. John was just pulling up the total when Sherlock dropped a few coins onto the counter.

"Going to drink it, this time?" John ventured as he gathered the coins. Counting it out, John saw that Sherlock had given him exact change without counting it out. The whole situation was odd, but after his last encounter he felt far more receptive to the oddities the omega projected about him. John looked up in time to see Sherlock tip of the cup and take a mouthful of the tea. John couldn't stop the grin from blooming across his lips.

It had been over a week since John left Sherlock's flat with more questions than answers. Until today, he'd come to terms with the fact that the whole incident was going to remain a worrying jumble in his head and that Sherlock wasn't going to sit still to be sussed out. He had been _fine_ with that knowledge and he'd finally managed to put the strange omega out of his head.

It seemed Sherlock had knack for surprising John.

He wanted to ask why Sherlock was here. It couldn't be a coincidence, not with the way Sherlock looked so confident and put together across the counter. The omega wasn't shocked to see a familiar face serving him tea, nor was he pretending they'd never met in the first place.

"Well, thank you," Sherlock turned then, breaking John from his thoughts as he watched the back of the omega sway towards the exit.

"Sherlock?" John called back in his sudden confusion. Was that it? He was just leaving now? Sherlock didn't stop at John's call and the familiar jingle signaled his departure into the rainy London streets. His darkened figure moved across the window's view before he vanished into the night._ What the hell?_

"You know him?" Molly's timid call filled the void of sound left in Sherlock's wake and John glanced over to see her watching out the window as well, hands clutching the broom handle she had been using to sweep around the tables. A splash of color ran across her cheeks and her teeth worried her bottom lip. She looked like she had just fallen in love and that just frustrated John even more. He grabbed the cleaning cloth and began scrubbing the counter with a rough hand, "yes, he's a twat." He left it at that.

Five minutes later, the front was locked down and the shades were drawn, Molly counted up the till's content and everything was packed away to its proper place. John would have been upset at the idea of going back to an empty flat if he wasn't already furious with his earlier encounter with the omega arse. What _was_ that? He was entirely convinced that Sherlock was _playing _with him and the idea made his blood boil. Where did Sherlock get off? John had done nothing to warrant being some victim in some mad man's game of cat and mouse. He'd never met an omega like him. Hell, he had never met _anyone_ like him. Nothing about Sherlock was normal and John _shouldn't_ want to see him again!

He just wanted the man to leave him alone and let John forget about him. John closed his locker a little more forcefully than he had intended and he frowned as the door clattered against the latch. "I'm taking the rubbish out!" he called out to Molly, who was still shuffling about somewhere in the front room. He didn't wait for a reply as he left out the back door, bin bag in hand.

And right into Sherlock's familiar scent.

John's eyes flew up to the man standing across the dimly lit alley. The only light came from over the door he'd just stepped out of, but it was enough to cast a yellow glow upon the man leaning upon the brick work across the way. "You," John snapped, he wanted to be angry, but his shout came out surprised. "Where did you come from?" Sherlock turned his eyes to the open end of the alley and John could practically feel the arrogance rolling off the omega. "No, forget it," he corrected himself quickly, "Have you been following me?"

"Of course not, John, stalking requires effort," the deep voice drummed a smug replied as Sherlock pushed himself from the wall. As he moved, John binned the rubbish and stepped in beside the taller man lest he wander off. As mad as John felt, he'd just feel worse if he got left behind _again_. Together they walked into the open street while the urge to huff at the man overcame John.

"Fine, I'll bite. How did you know where I work, exactly?" John peered up to Sherlock. The man's eyes were bright and his movements came easily. He didn't look high, and John was almost relieved to see that he hadn't come strung out on cocaine or whatever else he fancied. It still bothered him, knowing Sherlock was an addict and knowing that he could end up on the street again without someone like John to come along next time to rescue him. He noticed, then, with a sinking feeling that it was the exact same worry he had for his sister, or his father, when they refused to listen to reason or take care of themselves. He really didn't need someone else like that in his life: someone he had to take of.

His thoughts must have shown on his expression, because Sherlock was studying him again, observing John with those bright eyes that seemed to take in everything John was thinking and give nothing back in return. John felt a heat rush to his cheeks and he looked away. "Simple," Sherlock broke his own spell as he spoke, his eyes drawn away from John when they were finished, "You reeked of coffee when you returned my mobile, your trousers and shoes were stained with twelve different varieties. You also chose to walk to my flat that day. You not only work at a café, but one close to the university. One you can walk to without disrupting your schedule. There are four possible locations, only one that matched the style of the napkin you had forgotten to take out of your back pocket. Not to mention your schedules are hanging behind the bar for anyone to walk in and see."

John was staring at Sherlock again. He was certain he was gaping like a fool but at the moment he couldn't be arsed enough to care. "That... Wow." John shook his head. "That wasn't simple at all, I would have never noticed all that." Sherlock gave him a perturbed look. "Brilliant." He added as Sherlock's lips finally twitched up into a brief smile. John could almost forget his earlier frustration with the man.

"John!"

He tensed just a little when he heard the soft voice calling for him. Shit, he'd forgotten to tell Molly he was leaving. He turned to see the smaller omega jogging to catch up with him and Sherlock, her face flushed from the effort – or perhaps Sherlock's presence, John thought glumly. "Sorry, Molly." John gave an apologetic smile, "I didn't mean to leave without telling you." He glanced to Sherlock, then did a double take when he caught the man practically glaring at the poor girl. John nudged him with an elbow before focusing on Molly again.

She looked between the two men before she gave John a brief, understanding smile, "It's alright. I was just hoping, maybe, we could walk to the bus stop again? If you want, I don't mean to get in the way."

John was about to say how fine it really was when Sherlock's sharp words interrupted him. "You've got a stalker."

John rounded his head towards Sherlock at that blunt admissions, while Molly looked petrified. "What?" John demanded, "Sherlock, you can't just– "

"How did you know?" Molly's small voice laid over John's reprimand and his mouth snapped shut, his gaze shooting back to Molly.

"An alpha," Sherlock continued with a harsh edge to his voice. "He's been following you for quite a while now. You're not interested, you prefer you're own gender, don't you?" Sherlock's mouth twitched into a sharp smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Molly was blushing furiously at this point, and John couldn't believe the man's tactlessness. "Sherlock."

His attempts to quell Sherlock's outburst were ignored as the tall omega stalked back and forth as if he couldn't stand still, "He's recently started approaching you at work. I saw the way you looked when I came in, you were expecting _him_. You are only walking with John," He waved a hand towards John like that might prove some point, "because you think you won't be approached if you're with him."

There was a stiff silence that followed Sherlock's biting words. John looked between the two omega's with hesitating glances before Molly finally stammered out "I... yes."

"Molly? Really?" John gave up on Sherlock when Molly sounded so crestfallen. He turned his full attention to her as she gave a small nod, "Have you gone to the police about this?"

"Yes," Molly said, offering one of her small smiles, "I have, but he hasn't threatened me – or tried to hurt me – he's just a bit creepy, you know? It's silly, really."

"No it isn't, Molly," John growled out, she shouldn't just shrug something like this off. He looked at Sherlock again, hoping for some sort of support in this, but the taller man wasn't even watching them any more. Instead, he wandered a few feet away and looked pointedly off in the distance – having the gall to look _bored._

"Look," John spoke through clenched teeth, his hands began digging into his coat pocket for his phone, "I'll give you my number and if you ever feel like you need help or... or just someone to talk to, you call me." John waited until she nodded before he finally surrendered a relieved smile. Ignoring the grunt coming from Sherlock, John was glad to see that Molly seemed to perk up considerably. The two exchanged numbers and John felt a bit better about the whole situation. He would have done this sooner had he known.

The three continued their way through the night towards the bus stop when all was said and done. John and Molly shared a quiet conversation about the girl's Christmas, but Sherlock remained stubbornly silent, even when Molly attempted bashful questions directed towards him. John might have tried at conversation as well, but he didn't know what to ask the man. He was frustrating and brilliant and John wasn't sure if he wanted him to leave or not.

Finally reaching the bus stop, John said his goodbyes to Molly while Sherlock stood off to the side, fiddling with a cigarette and ignoring them both. John wasn't sure why Sherlock was still there, but the omega moved to follow John again after Molly's bus rolled away and so they both began walking in the general direction of home. Silence reigned as he watched the match's flame light up Sherlock's features in a brief burst before the tip of the cigarette came to life with a curl of red embers and grey smoke tendrils.

"That was rude, you know," John finally blurted out when they turned at the next street corner.

Sherlock didn't answer right away. He drew out a long pull of the cigarette and sighed a heavy breath of smoke into the night air. "Rude?" he asked, sounding utterly unconcerned. "Why should I care?"

"Yes. Rude," John insisted, "you could have been a bit kinder at least. Molly is a sweet girl and she doesn't deserve to be harassed by some brute stalker." John huffed, but Sherlock just shrugged a lazy shoulder. "Is this what you do?" he continued to push, "you look at people and read their life's story?"

"I _observe_, John. I see what everyone else ignores or are just too stupid to catch." Sherlock flicked the end of his cigarette and smoldering ash drift down and died on the cold, wet pavement.

"So when you said all those things about Molly-"

"Obvious conclusions from observable evidence. She wasn't even trying to hide her concerns." Sherlock held an edge of irritation to his voice, but John felt guilty for being so blind. He had noticed something was wrong when she first asked to walk with him, but he'd ignored it at the time; he never imagined it could be something so serious.

John felt a sudden urge to change the subject. "How did you know I want to be a surgeon?"

"The jumper you wore had been ripped under the arm. You mended it with a surgeon's knot. Well done, you practice."

"Oh, right." John watched the man's profile as they passed under another street light, "You could tell all that just by a glance?" Maybe the lights were playing with his eyes, because he could have sworn Sherlock's smile was almost predatory.

"You received the jumper some years ago," Sherlock continued without prompt, but John found himself inclined to let him carry on uninterrupted. "It doesn't fit you exactly, it was made to fit someone taller than yourself. You're an alpha and you wouldn't accept clothes that smell like a stranger, or even distant family members. So it came from some close relation. Most likely an older brother. However, you still wear the jumper to the point of mending rips, so you haven't received new hand me downs in some time. You haven't been close enough to your brother to get them..." Sherlock hesitated a moment, his eyes narrowed, "Or dead, but not likely.

"When you found me in heat, you didn't attack me right out like any other alpha would."

"Alphas aren't mindless, Sherlock." John felt a tenseness enter his voice, but Sherlock ignored him again.

"Instead, you resisted temptation enough to care for a compromised person, despite never having met an omega in heat before. You are _accustomed_ to giving care to the helpless. Likely,

you have cared for a family member for some time now. Your brother, correct?"

John remained pointedly silent and Sherlock finally turned his all seeing eyes upon him, "Oh, not just your brother, then?"

John felt his jaw clench against Sherlock's scrutiny, willing himself to remain silent until Sherlock finally pursed his lips and looked away. The silence drew out between them until it almost felt awkward. John was about to attempt to break the silence when Sherlock beat him to it.

"The way you carry yourself, the way you react. It all gives you away, John, like everyone else. Obvious." Sherlock almost sounded remorseful as he paused to stamp out the butt of the spent cigarette. John paused long enough for Sherlock to start walking again before he spoke.

"It's not obvious to just anyone," he points out, "I've never met anyone like you."

"Did I get anything wrong?" The smooth baritone turned up at the end and it drew John's gaze towards the man again.

"Sorry?" he frowned.

"I do hate repeating myself, John." Sherlock flashed his teeth in a brief grimace.

"Oh... well... yes, actually," he finally caught up with the jump in subjects. His admittance caused Sherlock to frown as he waited for him to explain. John shrugged. "I don't have a brother."

The look on Sherlock's face was priceless. He almost seemed offended. "Just a sister. Harriet." John smiled.

"Sister?.. _Sister?_" Sherlock bit out and John's smile grew. "Its always _something_."

John found that he was smiling as the two walked along without a word between them after Sherlock's sulk. It wasn't awkward at all any more. John was lulled into a calm by the sound of the quiet drizzle hitting the damp cement and the tapping of their shoes as they moved, side by side. John let himself puzzle over the man walking beside him. This was the man John found just a few weeks before about to be assaulted in an alley. The man who trashed his own flat and left John behind at the summons of a text. John should want nothing to do with Sherlock or his antics – he was an addict for Christs sake. Yet, Sherlock was equally brilliant and John could not deny that, he was interesting against a repetitive background. _Dangerous_, his mind supplied, _intense, amazing, beautiful.._.

"Dinner?" Sherlock's voice broke through John's runaway thoughts and John lost the smile he hadn't known he was still wearing. That was unexpected. He looked back to Sherlock to see that he had stopped walking. John followed suit and turned to look back at the man, then to the restaurant front Sherlock had stopped at. Angelo's? Italian, maybe?

"I shouldn't," John admitted after a moment's debate. He really didn't have the cash to spend on a nice dinner. Rent was due soon – that time of the month always made him gloomy.

"Nonsense, I'm buying." Sherlock put on a sharp smile as he twirled and vanished into the restaurant before John could flat out deny him. Was he serious? John scrunched his nose in frustration. Who was he kidding, it was Sherlock, of course he was serious. Without any better ideas, John straightened his jacket and followed the omega into the restaurant.

The smells that hit John then shot straight to his stomach and it clenched with a hungry growl. When was the last time he'd eaten at a decent restaurant, or even cooked a decent meal? He took in another deep breath as he found Sherlock settled in a booth by the window, stretched out and lounging like he owned the place. It seemed a default stance with the omega, and the sight sent a warmth down his spine that only briefly quelled the hunger. "Sherlock," he stared down the omega before settling into the booth across from him, "I can't let you do that. I hardly know you." And though John didn't want to admit it, his alpha pride wasn't about to accept such a token. "I'll pay for my meal." John waited, but Sherlock looked to be off in his own world, his gaze drifting out the window, "Sherlock, are you listening?"

Sherlock turned his head, his smile brightened briefly, but not to John: the waiter was upon them. Sherlock gave his order with practiced ease that only left John stuttering through a drink order before giving a quick look through the menu. Lasagne it was. Christ, John hoped this command Sherlock had over him wasn't going to become a habit.

When the waiter was gone, John glanced around the quiet restaurant. It only just occurred to him that he was sharing a dinner with the omega he'd _really_ only just met. He settled back in his seat and regarded the man across the table. "Sherlock, what is this?"

Sherlock slid a hand across his purple sleeve as he leant upon the table. They had taken his coat at the door, John noticed, and he felt a bit silly for still wearing his damp shooting jacket. "I was hungry," came Sherlock's simple reply. John could hear the unspoken 'obviously'.

"You don't have to buy my meals, I can manage just fine, you know," John shot back a bit too quickly.

"We both know that isn't true." Sherlock's gaze became sharp as he stared John down, as if he were waiting for John to deny him. John couldn't and he knew it. He glared right back to the omega as he changed tactics, "Then I-"

"Then you owe me," Sherlock continued and the very sentence caused John to grunt. Owe?

"What exactly do I owe you?"

"You stole my seven percent."

"What? The–" John stopped, then glanced around. When he continued, it was at a whisper. "The cocaine? Sherlock, I got you home _safe_ that night!"

"Fine, then I owe _you_." Sherlock countered. It seemed the more flustered John got, the more even and put together Sherlock seemed. What could John say to that? He tapped the table in his agitation, but the sound of the man's phone cut off his thoughts. He watched as Sherlock pulled it free from his pocket, and a sudden dread jumped in the pit of John's belly. John felt an urgent need to pull his attention away from whatever message he had just received, lest he be ignored again – or worse: watch Sherlock walk out on him.

"What do you do, anyway?" John latched upon the first question that came to mind. "Are you a student or...?" he added, when Sherlock smiled a slow smile. The phone was set down on the table and Sherlock's eyes met John's. _Success!_

"Sometimes," he answered cryptically.

"Sometimes...? Sometimes you're a student?" John attempted to urge a straight answer out of him. Yet, he already knew he was about to be disappointed.

"Sometimes I'm not," Sherlock confirmed without a hint for John to work off. What did that even mean? It didn't work like that. Had he been to uni in the past and dropped out? Maybe he was part time and only took one or two classes a semester. Despite the drugs, Sherlock was clearly brilliant, John didn't doubt that Sherlock could excel in whatever field he picked. John was still puzzling over how to get the man to give him a direct answer when their food arrived. Stomach won over his hunger for answers and John let the subject drop in favor of digging right in with vigour and three mouthfuls later he noticed he was practically shoving food into his mouth while Sherlock was poking his pasta primavera like it might bite him.

John considered this, watching Sherlock watch him. Didn't he say he was hungry? He huffed out, "you know you look like a twig, right?"

Sherlock raised a surprised eyebrow. Or perhaps it was just to humour John, he couldn't tell.

"You should eat." John poked his fork towards the food in front of Sherlock. "You said you were hungry." He waited expectantly, not touching his own meal until he saw Sherlock pull a decent forkful into his mouth. Satisfied, John nodded. "Good. You won't be starving today, at least."

Sherlock gave an unconvinced hum around his food and it only encouraged John's smile. A sudden idea struck him and John gave a quick glance to the other patrons of the restaurant before he nodded his head towards the table near the entrance. "So you can see through everyone, right?"

"It isn't a party trick, John." Sherlock replied in a flat tone, but his eyes were turning to follow John's gesture nonetheless.

"Oh please," John was still grinning at him when he called Sherlock on his bluff, "you enjoy showing off." A laugh escaped him when Sherlock made an effort to look put on. "Come on, tell me about that couple. Why are they here?"

The rest of the shared dinner was spent with Sherlock's clever deductions floating between the two men and John's rapt attention to every bit of it. Each time Sherlock jumped to wild conclusions John struggled to find the connections Sherlock so easily saw. Some of the things Sherlock pointed out were so far fetched that John would shake his head and giggle at the ridiculousness of it all. Honestly, how could Sherlock tell that the man in the corner was a cleaner in a local bank and was currently wearing a red lace thong under those scraggly old up black trousers?

It was amazing, really, and John was dazzled when Sherlock explained the reasoning behind his deductions. Sherlock was in his element when he watched people like this, he shined each time John was wowed by his words but, really, how could John _not_ be? He finished his lasagne off at some point during Sherlock's break down as to why he believed the two women sitting in the booth towards the kitchen were having affairs with each others husband and how neither were even remotely smart enough to figure that out. John had convinced Sherlock to take several more bites throughout the night, but his plate remained unfortunately full by the time the bill came. In the end he couldn't bring himself to complain when Sherlock paid for their meal without even glancing to the cost – he was reasonably well off, then – and they took their leave back into the streets with a content ease.

They never really stopped talking as they walked, though John wasn't sure what had got him started on his own medical career or why he felt so at ease talking about it with Sherlock. "I want to help people," he had said, "I always have. All the way back to when I would play doctor with Harry." He grinned, only to falter when Sherlock wasn't beside him any more. He turned around, finding the omega stood in front of... oh. His flat. Had they really got all the way there so quickly? Walking back to Sherlock, John felt a sudden, sinking feeling deep in his chest. This was almost like... like a _date._

John's focus turned upon Sherlock's hand as it moved from the omega's side to brush against John's cheek. His touch was cold, his hand smelled of cigarettes and oil and of the sweet smell John could only identify as Sherlock. His thoughts shuttered about in his head and his gaze snapped back to those grey eyes, hooded now by the shadows of the stoop they stood upon. Sherlock looked as if he was studying a puzzle and damned if that didn't prickle his flesh with chills. "Sherlock? I don't..."

Sherlock's hand slid easily to the back of John's neck as thin fingers brushed at the damp strands of his hair. The touch was so sudden that he should have jerked and pulled away on instinct, but the sweet scent of the omega grew closer and John couldn't help but to lean as he was tugged forward. His lips met Sherlock's soft bow and suddenly the world came to a screeching halt. His senses were overwhelmed with the smells and tastes of leather, cigarette smoke, sharp spices, remnant of Italian, and so many other things and under it all was a definite, intoxicating taste of _Sherlock_. John tensed as that harsh truth finally hit him: he was kissing Sherlock.

Hands lift up and he pushed against the omega's chest, firm and insistent until Sherlock broke the connection with a low sigh. Sherlock pulled back, but only so much as his lidded gaze met John's, his arm still wrapped around him like a vice unwilling to let go.

John lost his words in that sharp stare and his tongue slipped out to taste the lingerings of the man on his lips. "Sherlock, what the hell?" The omega's mouth twisted in a sinful smirk – a look that sent sparks down John's limbs, "what was that?"

"A kiss," Sherlock purred, eyes shifting down to John's lips, and he found himself licking them once more. "Evidently."

"Yes." John cleared his throat. He wanted to pull away from those long fingers stroking the hairs at the base of his neck, but he seemed to have forgotten how. "Yes it was, but I'm not... I'm not into guys, Sherlock, I'm sorry if–"

John's words cut off with a grunt when Sherlock whirled the both of them around and pushed John against the front door of the flat. The omega loomed over John and it was so familiar with _that night_ that John was breathless in moments and his trousers were growing uncomfortably tight. _Oh, God. _Why was he just accepting this? Such a position should send his fists flying, but the way Sherlock was looking at him: _hungry – _his brain supplied for him – he did everything in his power not to fucking _whimper_.

"I see the way you look at me, John Watson." Sherlock leaned into John, his lips brushing at the shell of his ear as he whispered his words. Cool air tickled at him as Sherlock inhaled deeply so close to his neck. He was _scenting_ John, and fuck if that didn't go straight to his cock. John's fingers twitched in aching _need _to reach up and touch the omega. "You want to touch me," Sherlock purred against John's ear, "you want to kiss me." A warm tongue brushed against John's ear, dipping through the folds and this time John groaned out obscenely. "You want to fuck me."

_Jesus_, John shivered.

Sherlock's head tilted and warm lips touched the heated skin of John's exposed neck while adept fingers slid down his side to press against John's hip. John's left hand jumped up and snaked into Sherlock's damp curls while the other grabbed at his jacket and tugged him closer, holding him as that tongue made large swaths across his skin. "You are... interesting, John." The voice was heady as Sherlock moved back towards John's ear to nip at his lobe. "I need you to fuck me."

Notes

Sorry the chapter upload is a bit late, I hope it was worth the wait. Thank you all for hanging in there and your comments are always appreciated 3

As always the chapters are beta'd by CrackshotKate over at ao3. She has done a wonderful job fixing my horrible grammar!


	5. Chapter 5

_Sherlock._

The madman was the first thing to drift through John's groggy mind when he came slowly from sleep in the omega's bed. Sherlock's scent surrounded him like a cocoon – undercut by the aroma of their sinful deeds the night before. A smile curled John's lips and warmed his expression while his hand stretched out from under the duvet – his fingers found nothing but cold, empty sheets around him.

John pushed himself up on an elbow to observe the room. It was empty of the omega and, to John's shock, fairly clean and tidy. He hadn't had a chance to get a good look the night before and it was a bit of a surprise after seeing what Sherlock had done to the rest of his flat. His head tilted and he listened for any sign of life outside the bedroom door, but the seconds ticked by and nothing alerted John of another person wandering outside the room; Sherlock had abandoned him.

The alpha flopped back onto the bed with a mighty grunt and stretched out to dominate the entirety of the wide mattress. Maybe he could rub enough of his own scent into the soft sheets that Sherlock would smell him no matter how much he washed the bedding. Would serve the bastard right – not that John was all that upset. He sort of figured it would be a one night stand; Sherlock didn't seem the type to cuddle, make coffee, and talk of future dates. The very idea left John with a silly, sleepy grin. No, he knew exactly what he had walked – jumped head first – into.

John let his eyes drift closed as the night before came back to him full force. After Sherlock's tempting proposal at the door, John had been more than ready to surrender to the surge of _want_ that took over his mind and body. Thinking back, he never stood a chance.

* * *

"Oh God, yes." John groaned, head tilted to the side to let Sherlock lavish the crook of his neck with that wonderfully talented tongue of his. Because why the fuck not? Sherlock wasn't in heat, he wanted John, and John would no longer have to pretend he didn't want the skinny, brilliant bastard.

The omega hummed his approval and shifted back to mash their mouths into a vicious kiss –there was nothing sweet about the groping lips and wrestling tongues fighting for control. Sherlock tasted too much like cigarettes and Italian while John stunk of coffee but he didn't have it in him to care whilst fighting to dominate every bit of that sinful, viper mouth; a low growl rumbled from his chest when Sherlock nipped his bottom lip in retribution. His left hand ducked under the leather jacket to dig into his lower back and drag the omega's front flush against him. The hardness pressing now against John's belly was hot, new and _dazzling_.

He was only vaguely aware of Sherlock's hands shifting away from him until he heard the key meeting the door's lock. When the door opened he stumbled backwards into the hallway, he held his twig of an omega in a tight grip and dragged Sherlock along until the both of them were secure inside with the door shut tight. Not the sort to shy away from a new experience, John swiftly pressed his weight into the taller omega, pushing until Sherlock's back was against the wall and John could slide closer between spread knees to slot their lips together once more. John felt a tugging on his shoulder and he shifted back just enough to let Sherlock tear his jacket off. The wet fabric hit the floor behind him and he swiftly repaid the favour while Sherlock dragged him deeper into the sitting room.

Stumbling through the dark flat, he was trying to simultaneously walk and grope at clothes when a sudden, sharp pain against his shin jerked John from his lust addled haze. He grunted out, "fuck!" and jerked away from the other man to eye the upside down coffee table that had offended his poor, throbbing leg. John's eyes jumped to the rest of the living room and he was completely stunned at the mess he could only just make out in the low light, "Sherlock," he cried, looking back to the tall omega, "you didn't tidy up at all!"

"Boring." Sherlock's attention roamed briefly over the mess he had left in his living room before it settled back on John. His long fingers stretched out to tug at John's sleeve.

"Wait, Sherlock, this is serious. It's been weeks!" John set his hand on the omega's chest, briefly stopping his advances. "You're a mess, you know that, right?"

"Tsk," Sherlock huffed. It was a marvel how quickly he jumped from 'god's gift to man' to 'three years old and pouting', "Mycroft normally sends someone by now." He glared at the offending room. "He's throwing a tantrum, I think. I don't care to remember."

"Who?" John muttered as he rubbed at his shin. There was going to be one hell of a bruise there in the morning.

"Never mind." Sherlock's growling word was his only warning when tight hands grabbed onto his jumper and dragged him back up towards eager lips. The touch was brief and Sherlock began to trail quick nips down John's chin and jaw, marking each centimetre as he muttered, "this is more interesting."

"Fuck, Sherlock," he hissed, "this isn't over."

Sherlock clearly wasn't listening as he made it to the base of his neck and drew in a deep breath through parted lips. His tongue lapped at the place where John's scent was strongest, each stroke sent his cock twitching with want. Seriously, how did he end up so lucky? Hips rolling against the omega, brushing his hard alpha flesh into a soft thigh and the moan Sherlock made was positively evil.

"You are-" John attempted, breathless.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed as he guided John once more through the room, this time John avoided the table.

"Sherlock, I-" John tried again as he closed his fingers around the dark purple shirt.

"I know!" Sherlock bit out as he jerked at John's belt. He sounded more annoyed at the attempts at conversation, so John shut up quickly and instead focused on those shirt buttons that were keeping that delicious body from him. Undoing the first three, John stopped the omega at the bedroom door to bury his nose against the man's neck, needing to scent him _now_. While his hands pinned his omega half in and half out of the bedroom, Sherlock squirmed with a soft moan. John replied with a low growl when Sherlock shifted again, his instincts demanding he not to let his omega get away. Only when the man stilled did John close his lips around the muscle and lavish it with rough, sucking kisses.

Sherlock tasted divine and John wanted more of those odd conflicting tastes – of rain and smoke and leathers all mixed in with Sherlock's own amazing scent. He couldn't explain it, but it stirred an excitement in John that he had never felt before. The women he'd slept with often covered themselves with enhanced scents and perfumes that tickled his nose and sent his attention away from the intimacy of the moment. Fuck, even the women who he liked to scent were nothing compared to this. A moan sent a jolt down John's spine and he ground his hips against Sherlock's thigh, pulling as many noises through that rich voice as John could manage. He wanted to hear it all.

A weight touched his chest and John growled again, wanting nothing more than to keep Sherlock pinned under him, but the push was insistent and John finally surrendered his hold to be pushed back and have his jumper and shirt pulled off in one fluid motion. Giving no more time for John to act, Sherlock pushed at him again so suddenly that he nearly stumbled onto his arse. He stepped back until his legs hit the edge of the bed and dropped down into a sit and, a moment later, Sherlock came to his knees in front of him. Immediately, John dug his hand into those damp, inky locks and curled his fingers gently across his scalp. Beautiful, Sherlock was utterly beautiful. The room was dark and the only light came from the window somewhere off to John's left, but it was enough to paint Sherlock's face a masterpiece of lights and shadows. John could feel his heart thudding in his ears, and... wait... was Sherlock...

"Sherlock, are you going to-"

"Hush, John." The omega snapped, his expression briefly wrinkling with annoyance, but his words were clouded and rough and John felt a pang of pride for being the one to tear apart Sherlock's layers. Of course that pride vanished in a haze of _want_ when hands pressed into the obvious bulge between his legs and the insistent tug told him to lift his hips. Sherlock pulled John's trousers and pants down to his knees, leaving him, for all intents and purposes, completely naked before the posh omega. _Christ Almighty_.

Looking down, John saw his own cock standing eager from between his legs. He watched as those long fingers wrapped around the shaft and squeezed. Oh, it was heaven to see his engorged alpha cock throb under those pale fingers, it almost made him wish the knot would inflate again, but Sherlock was nowhere near his heat. John let out a breathless groan as the mad omega's long fingers began to stroke him with tortuously slow motions. He looked back to the omega's expression and almost jumped when he saw him starring back with those brilliant eyes. Oh, _fuck_.

"Sherlock," he gasped when the man's thumb passed over his swollen gland. He reached out to grab Sherlock's wrist, but he moved away at the last moment, John wanted to cry. He instead followed the bastard with his eyes as Sherlock went to the bedside table and dug into the drawer. Lube was dropped beside John's hip and a condom wrapper was getting ripped apart. Jesus, John had almost forgotten. He cursed himself for forgetting such a fundamental law of safe sex. His heart sunk at the very idea. Was Sherlock… did he have something?

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped through John's panic.

"I didn't say anything," he huffed, suddenly defensive, but he scooted further back on the bed when Sherlock advanced upon him with the condom.

"You're thinking. Loudly." Sherlock glanced up to John's worried expression before those fingers wrapped around him again and the condom slid slowly down his length, hazing John's worry with the slow pull of Sherlock's hand. "I'm always careful, I don't use dirty needles and I'm not sick." Sherlock stared up at him until he nodded, believing the words despite all the warnings. The nod was all Sherlock needed to plunge forward. Those wonderful lips wrapped around John's engorged gland and John wanted to cry at the velvet heat that surrounded him. He couldn't take his eyes off the way Sherlock's bow lips fit so nicely around his shaft while that hidden tongue lapped slowly around his head.

"Sherlock – oh, fuck," He moaned, his fingers immediately sinking deeper into Sherlock's dark curls and holding him there as a tongue pressed at the underside of his shaft. This was insane, it was... god, it was bloody amazing. John didn't dare break his gaze away from those mischievous eyes as the omega's lips swallowed more and more of his cock. The grey-green eyes fluttered before focusing again on John, the colour only a ring around dark pools in the dim light – they bored into him like they could read his every twitch and breathless whine. Gods, they probably could, probably were and those thoughts only made John moan louder. Oh, _fuck_.

That talented tongue danced over his gland again in torturous flicks and John's fingers tightened against his scalp, urging him to keep pushing until John just couldn't take it any more – but, to his horror, the omega suddenly released him without so much as a warning. It was so quick that he was left gasping and twitching with the need to thrust up and follow after that perfect mouth. The omega moved swiftly to the bed beside him and began removing his shirt, giving him the chance to recover enough not to fucking beg or to wrap his own hand around himself to finish the job. Instead, he took slow breaths and watched as Sherlock's nimble fingers unhooked the stubborn round buttons to reveal more and more of that lovely pale skin. Leaving the shirt open to a long strip of pale torso, Sherlock moved to his belt and trousers next and John's muddled brain finally caught up to what was happening.

Sliding his clothes off his legs completely, he only vaguely noted he had lost his shoes some time on the way into the room – not that it mattered. He tossed his clothes and climbed up to his knees as Sherlock removed the last of his own and John was upon him in an instant. Bare skin slid against bare skin as he nipped at Sherlock's shoulder. One hand slid against the omega's back while the other moved across his front, down his chest, down his belly, down until his hand found the stiff, heated flesh of his cock. Sliding his hand around it, John was hooked on listening to Sherlock's responsive gasps. Yes, those were sounds he wanted to hear more of.

Before he had the chance to become acquainted with the new, friendly anatomy, Sherlock was pulling away from him once again and settling himself against the pillows at the headboard. John watched as the omega opened the bottle of lube and the clear gel was spilled into his hand, then moved down between his spread legs. Oh…

The sight of Sherlock stretched out before John made his cock bob hungrily. He laid back, head tilted up to reveal the long curves and planes of his thin body. John's hand lifted to run along his inner thigh almost unconsciously while he watched Sherlock circle his fingers around the puckered hole. He twitched at John's gentle slide, his head tilting to watch him with hooded eyes as he carefully pushed his first finger in, his expression changing in concentration. Yet, something was off to John – Sherlock seemed more interested in him than he was of his own fingers. John couldn't have _that_.

"That's enough." he slid forward, snatching Sherlock's wrist before he could pull it away. He shifted his hand down and pulled the slick excess lube from the man's fingers to his own while the rest of him settled over top the spread omega. "My turn.."

"John." Sherlock had the nerve to look annoyed, "it will be done much faster if-"

John had the pleasure of shutting up the pompous noises of irritation when his own fingers slid down to fondle Sherlock's round sack before slipping down to the already slicked entrance. With a careful nudge, he pressed a finger into the tight heat and was rewarded by the soft moan rolling from the omega. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and John could not resist bending down and taking his mouth once more, only this time he kissed with a gentleness that wasn't there before. He lavished Sherlock's mouth as he slid deeper inside, rolling his finger around carefully and without the practiced ease of experience.

"More." Sherlock demanded when their kiss briefly broke, demanding with that baritone purr and John could do nothing but agree. Gently a second finger joined the first and the omega was moaning under his ministrations. Sherlock was fucking vocal and every cry in that beautifully deep voice was an aphrodisiac. It should be sinful. His breath shook as the kiss broke again, John's lips moved down to worry at the spots on the man's neck where his own scent was already saturated.

"John!" The deep voice groaned out as Sherlock arched up against him, "now, John."

He might have laughed if he wasn't so over the edge, the git was just as bossy in bed as he was out of it. He slid his fingers out after one last twist and pumped his own wrapped cock with the slick fingers. Right, this was it. He leaned forward and, scraping his teeth against the muscle of Sherlock's shoulder, John aligned his aching, ignored cock against the puckered ring and pushed slowly.

"Harder John, stop dawdling" Sherlock growled from under him, his hips lifting against the push until John was sliding into resistance. Dear God, the tight heat was far different than any woman he ever been with – it was tighter, hotter, and squeezed against his throbbing cock like it was made only for him. Only his Sherlock. The omega hissed as John pushed deeper still until finally, _finally_ he was seated flush inside the man.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock, hang on," he groaned out, head dipping to rest against Sherlock's shoulder. He had to pause now, as strained as his willpower already was, or else everything would be over far too quickly. Sherlock, at least, granted him a brief reprieve, but it only seemed to last mere moments before the omega began to squirm again. _Impatient_. John let himself give in to the intoxicating drag of motion in and out of that slick passage, he was already on edge, already building up to what he knew was going to be an amazing finish.

His eyes shut tightly as he swam in Sherlock's and his own scent with each deep gasp for breath. Sherlock was groaning under him, making such delicious noises as his hands gripped John's back, digging into his skin with those long fingers, leaving the most delicious trails of heat in their wake and drawing happy little noises that John just couldn't help.

John pushed himself up, his eyes turned upon Sherlock's face as he began to thrust in earnest. "Beautiful, amazing," he whispered as he watched the exposed man under him; Sherlock's eyes were closed again, head tilted to bare his neck and curls unruly against pale flesh and pillow. Oh, he was gorgeous like this: undone and open to John.

How many people got to see him like this? How could he make this so easy to obtain – this moment that should be treasured and cherished? A low growl rumbled up from John's chest, his hips snapping up into a vicious thrust while Sherlock gasped and arched against him. He had to fight the urge to possess this omega – to take his ability to fuck anyone else but John. Hormones. Scents. That's all it was.

John closed his eyes and focused instead on the slick heat, letting his hand travel between them to take Sherlock in a demanding grip. It only took a few good strokes before the omega tensed and gasped out John's name with a delicious, disheveled voice. He spilled over John's hand and both their bellies while John's cock was clenched in those velvet folds so perfectly. There was no turning back, he thrust hard into the omega until his own orgasm hit like a double decker bus. "Oh fuck, ah-Sherlock," he thrust deep and buried himself completely as he spilled uselessly into the latex wrap – the world fell away and in that moment, it only existed for two.

* * *

John smiled lazily as his thoughts roamed over the finale of the world's strangest date. He hadn't had an orgasm so enjoyable in months – no wonder he had slept so well after a finish like that. After they had cleaned themselves up, John had dutifully asked if he should leave – seeing as they weren't exactly dating. Sherlock had told him that he could do whatever he wanted, so John chose to stay. Whether or not the man cared in the end was up to debate, he wasn't there to ask. The rest of the night was a blur, but John definitely remembered holding Sherlock in his arms as he fell asleep.

Rolling over to the edge of the mattress at last, John got his bearings in the room. His gaze roamed over the almost formal set up and the lack of personal photos gracing the walls or surfaces. He couldn't exactly deduce what any of it meant or why this room was clean when the rest was left a disaster zone, he wasn't _Sherlock_ after all. Giving up on his attempts at deduction, John picked up his trousers and socks and got to his feet, his body buzzing with a surprisingly pleasant ache.

Did he overdo it last night? The thought of Sherlock's rear aching brought John's head just a bit higher as he stepped out of the bedroom. The hall was, for the most part, empty of debris—save for a fallen frame John picked up and slid back into place. The bathroom wasn't far past that and he ducked in to take a piss.

The mirror's crack was the first thing John had noticed out of place. It looked as if Sherlock had chucked something at it, or worse, hit it with his fist. John made a face at the idea before he pushed it out of his head and finished his business. The rest of the bathroom didn't look nearly as bad as the living room and kitchen did. John smelled the faint scent of Sherlock and soaps around the room while he straightened just a bit before putting his trousers and socks back on and heading back out into the hall.

He found his shoes just outside the living room door so he quickly slid them on lest he step on something sharp and bleed all over the carpet. Once clothed from the waist down, John set about assessing the damage of the room laid out before him. Now that he was looking at it in better light, John could see that someone had attempted to straighten out some of the mess since his last visit, but whether it was Sherlock and whether it was done before or after John's complaints last night, he would never know.

John stepped over the remnants of a broken vase to the pile of books near the fireplace. He gathered a few in his hands and began slotting them back into the bookshelf as he read the titles. Chemistry books were the majority, but there were several oddities mixed in too. Oddities such as: 'The Penguin Dictionary of Curious and Interesting Numbers'. That one made him do a double take.

Halfway through pushing books onto shelves, John wondered why he was even bothering. He didn't owe Sherlock for anything and the git really needed to do this himself. It didn't seem _right_ for the bastard to fuck over his own flat and just leave it for someone else to clean up. His own argument made sense, and yet John was still tidying. Deep down he knew the well known instinct for an alpha to court an omega by showing them that they can be a provider and care taker, but John refused to believe that _that_ was why he was cleaning.

Perhaps it was just sentiment and common sense – no matter how much John might think Sherlock needed to clean his own mess, he was aware of the likelihood of the man actually doing it. Besides, there was nothing John had planned for the day besides soap opera catch-ups, so he finished shelving the books and went to see about sweeping up all the broken glass littered across the floor.

He had his shirt and jumper back on by the time he fixed the legs of the coffee table and got it right side up on the rug again. He went to straighten the sofa back against the wall when he saw the obvious lump in the seat, so he pulled out a cushion and the culprit made him freeze. A skull. A bloody human skull. John touched the frontal bone, then picked it up and turned it over. It certainly looked real. "What the hell, Sherlock?" John shook his head as he carried it over to the mantle. Something like this was meant to be on display.

Everything else was just a matter of picking up and putting into the right places. Frames were hung, the ash in the fire place was removed, clothes were dumped in a basket John found in Sherlock's room. At some point he wondered if Sherlock would think he was creepy for doing this. He certainly didn't expect a 'thank you' any time soon, but would Sherlock get upset? No, John would be lucky if Sherlock gave the room a second glance.

The kitchen was a bit of a trickier mess. The table was covered in a massive chemistry set, complete with petri dishes filled with moldy brown.. things that smelled _rotten_ – John didn't want to know how long those have been sitting out. The floor had been cleaned of dropped cutlery and plates, but it seemed all of them had found their way into the sink. John set the drawers back into their compartments and washed the dishes. He binned the petri dishes with an enthusiastic glee, but left the beakers and bottles where they laid.

Once everything viable was finished, John assessed the flat around him. It only seemed to whisper bits of who the man was that lived here. The furniture, for example, looked like a mix and match of second hand purchases, but the microscope in the kitchen could easily have been worth a thousand pounds. The skull spoke eccentric, but the books on the shelves were books John might expect in a professor's office. John wasn't going to get a decent conclusions from any of this.

Besides, he decided, it was far past time to go home. He still smelled like sex and Sherlock and taking a shower here wasn't as appealing as a shower back in his own flat. He checked his phone one last time, seeing no new notifications or missed calls – only that the phone was low on battery. Not that he expected a call from Sherlock, he never even got the omega's number. Maybe he should leave his own, just in case Sherlock might want to repeat the experience? John found himself hesitating for the first time since he fell into the flat the night before. The sex was fantastic, but did John really want to get himself mixed up with an addict on a regular basis?

Screw it, Sherlock knew where to find him if he really wanted to talk. With a heaving sigh, John grabbed his damp jacket and slid out the door.

"Mr. Watson?"

John jerked his eyes up from the pavement when he heard his name. His eyes settled on a large alpha standing in front of a sleek black car. John looked over the vehicle, then to the man in the suit when the guy moved to open the back door.

"Please get in." The man sounded like he was conducting some sort of business transaction.

"You're joking, right?" John raised his eyebrows at the open door. Inside he could just make out a woman sitting on the far seat. Looking back, John sized the man up. The alpha was taller than John, his shoulders broad and thick. John probably couldn't take him in a fight. He glanced down the street, deciding he'd have better luck walking away. So he did.

Two steps were taken before his phone buzzed in his pocket. Digging it out, he scanned the screen then pulled it to his ear. Unknown number? "Hello?"

"It is in your best interest, John Watson, that you get into the car."

John froze. He jerked the phone from his ear and checked the number again. Still unknown. He frowned as he pulled it back to his ear, "Who is this? How did you get my number?"

"Get in the car, John." The voice sounded _bored_ "I would hate to cause a scene."

John's mouth was already working on a retort when the call disconnected. He ground his teeth together and looked back to the car and the driver standing at the open door. What the hell was going on?

-0-

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Thanks again for the comments, they make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside!

And as always, thanks so much to CrackshotKate over at ao3 for beta and britpicking for me. She's amazing, seriously.


	6. Chapter 6

John wasn't normally in the habit of accepting rides from strangers.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and turned to face the car – it was some sort of Bentley: expensive and gleaming in the mid-day sun. He'd never touched, let alone ridden in a car half as expensive as this one. Was he suppose to be impressed or intimidated? Honestly, all John felt was offended that someone thought they could _bully_ him. The man by the car – the driver, John guessed – was an alpha of sharp dress with enough muscle definition to ensure the jacket he wore didn't hide the threat factor. John asked himself: why was he in this situation at all?

This had to have something to do with Sherlock, of course. What had John gotten himself mixed up with? He looked around again, one last hope for a second option – someone he recognised or even a police officer. No such luck. There was hardly anyone out on the street and certainly no one who could later identify his last seen location when his body turned up at the bottom of the Thames. _Woah, hold on_, there was no need to get ahead of himself. He was already planning his funeral here. John wanted to laugh.

The driver cleared his throat, reminding John that he had a place to be. He grimaced as he approached the Bentley. Against better judgment, or any judgment at all, John growled at the driver at least a foot taller than him as he moved past and ducked into the open door. He slid into the plush leather seat and his eyes fell immediately to the woman he had glimpsed earlier.

She was a pretty brunette with a body he could admire. A beta by her scent, or at least he thought so. There was a chemical smell to her that made his nose itch – suppressors, maybe? He wouldn't be surprised. Such drugs were expensive and usually reserved for people with disposable income, with a car like this she certainly had plenty of that. God, he didn't even care. "Hello?" he offered in a less than pleased tone, hoping she'd give him some bloody answers.

"Hi." The woman chirped a replied without looking up from the Blackberry she was furiously typing on. Her smile was pleasant, but hollow.

"John Watson," he attempted again.

"Yes, I know." That made the hair on John's arm stand on ends.

"Of course you do." The door closed behind John with a 'whump' and John inhaled slowly. In the small space it was painfully clear that he still smelt of equal parts Sherlock and sex. It was bold and invasive against the smells of chemicals and new car leather around him and John wished he'd taken that shower at Sherlock's after all. He felt his face heat up a bit and he cleared his throat, trying his best to ignore the smell of his dirty deeds clouding the car.

"Any chance you're going to tell me where we're going?" John flat out asked when he lost sight of any familiar buildings out the window. As _spectacular_ as it was to sit beside the beta woman still smelling of _sex_, John was anxious to be out and done with the whole charade.

"Ah… sorry." The woman gave a brief smile, her eyes flickering up from the Blackberry only briefly to acknowledge John's presence.

Right. He sat back to watching the outside world through tinted glass. He was annoyed, embarrassed, and slightly concerned for his safety, but the longer he sat there, getting led away to who knows where, the more his heart jumped with the thrill of the moment. This was _exciting_. Like something out of a Bond film where he was an MI6 agent being lead to some evil doer's lair for Queen and Country. He was still upset, God yes, but deep down he knew he should be frightened, but he truly, honestly, wasn't. What was _wrong_ with him?

When the car finally stop some twenty minutes later John was practically squirming with anticipation. He had attempted a few more questions directed towards the allegedly beta woman, but she gave him nothing at all to work with. Maybe he should have expected the big warehouse they stopped in front of. It seemed like an apt place for a criminal overlord to meet his fated enemies. When the engine shut off John climbed out of the car before the driver dared open his door for him. He slammed the door a bit harshly and looked around the lot as the beta woman passed him by. When John didn't immediately follow her, she addressed him without abandoning her Blackberry. "This way, Mr. Watson." She managed not to sound chiding, either. Well, he was already here, might as well see who had gone to all the trouble of setting up the ridiculous meeting.

He straightened his shoulders and stepped after the woman while he tried to figure out why he was there. The place looked as if it was still in use. There were functioning halogen lights and the lot seemed clean. When he was lead through a side door, the inside didn't look uncared for and none of the lights were burnt out or flickering. He could even smell the faint odors of other people, but he couldn't see or hear anyone, so what did that mean? John didn't have long to mull over the questions as the beta lead him through another door and into the open grounds of the warehouse. Stacks upon stacks of boxes and crates rose towards the ceiling, but John's attention went immediately to the well dressed man standing in front of him with a sardonic smile and a brolly.

The beta woman stopped at the door and when John looked back she was submerged in her Blackberry screen again. Right, he was going in alone then. As he marched forward, the scent of alpha rose from the man he was to meet—it was downright uncomfortable and John couldn't tell why. His scent was a blend of sandalwood and old books marked with the strong smells of tobacco and scotch, none of it was particularly bad, but it was _familiar _and John couldn't put a finger on why. It sat at the back of his mind as he stopped far enough from the man that he could have an escape, but not far enough to appear intimidated. The man held an ease in his posture that was a stark contrast to John's stiff stance.

"John. Do have a seat," the older man began and John remembered the voice over the phone.

"You knew my number," John pointed out while ignoring the offer of the chair. "You knew where I was, you knew my _name_." He looked around again, the warehouse was probably cleared out just for them, too. Ridiculous. "Who are you?"

"Who I am is inconsequential and-"

"No," John flared, "You drag me all the way out here without answers. Who are you and why am I here?"

The man's smile merely twitched, looking only a bit inconvenienced by the interruption. "Yes, I thought perhaps our discussion would best be held in private", the man speaks and John decides he doesn't like him at all.

"What could we possibly have to discuss?"

"I suspect you've already come to that conclusion." The alpha's nostrils flared in a show of scenting the air.

"Sherlock," John found himself flushing, knowing straight away that the man could smell what they had done the night before. "What about him?"

"What are your intentions?" John tensed at those words, the man's expression hadn't changed, but he suddenly seemed more dangerous than before. He was far more dangerous than the muscle man driving the Bentley, that was for sure.

"With Sherlock? I hardly know him." And it was true. They'd barely known each other past a conversation over dinner.

"And yet you were happy to crawl into his bed last night." The alpha's smile was bitter and it didn't meet his eyes.

"Who are you, exactly?" John's voice dropped, but he resisted the growl that threatened to rumble up. Something told him he didn't want to start a fight with this fucker.

"Just an interested party." He waved off the question again, "Sherlock can be such trouble, sometimes. I do worry about him."

John glanced around him again, eying the empty room. Seriously, who was this man? He was clearly powerful. He had more control than anyone else John had ever met. If he was mixed up with Sherlock, did that mean he had something to do with the cocaine? "Why are you interested? Who is he to you?"

"Oh, he would call me an enemy. His arch enemy, in fact." The man said it as if he was discussing the weather. "He has such a flair for the dramatics."

John eyed the man again. He didn't look like a drug dealer, but what about a criminal organization sort? Oh, definitely. _God,_ John was certainly fucked. How did Sherlock get himself mixed up with people like this? Did he belong to some crime syndicate? Did he owe people money? Piss off the wrong mob boss? "Whatever me and Sherlock do is our business alone," he finally managed to bite out.

The alpha raised his eyebrows at that, "You don't seem very afraid."

"Should I be?" John was honestly curious. So far the man hadn't threatened him beyond the not so veiled show of power.

The man chuckled drily, "that remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

That brought a frown to John's face.

"I am prepared to offer you a monthly sum."

"What?" John gaped, where the hell did that come from? "Why?"

"Because your dwindling savings account will not last another year."

John bristled, how did he know about that? "For what?"

"Nothing you aren't comfortable with, I simply want you to inform me of Sherlock's actions whenever he contacts you."

Not if, when. "No", John hissed out.

"I haven't told you the amount." The alpha tapped his brolly on the concrete floor, his attention more on it than John, but he suspected he had surprised the alpha.

"Doesn't matter," he shook his head, "not interested."

The man's sharp eyes returned to John and regarded him for a long moment. When he looked away, John could almost feel the weight of that icy stare lift, "You are the first to attend university in your family."

John's eyes narrowed.

"It would be a shame if you were forced to quit."

John raised his gaze to stare at the ceiling while he saw red. How _dare_ this fucker. "Right." He growled as he turned around. There was no attempts to stop him as he stormed past the beta and kept marching out the side door. If he had stayed, he knew he would have hit the bastard and _that_ would not have ended well for John. Likely he'd have found himself on his back showing his submission to the arrogant sod. The very idea made his face hot and his blood boil, yet John knew who had the advantage in _that_ situation.

The car was still there, maybe it was waiting for John to take him back home, but at the moment John was far too angry to even consider a ride. He stomped right past it and headed for the pavement.

He was almost at the bottom of the road when he remembered he had no bloody idea where the hell he was. It had taken almost a half hour to get here too. _Damn_. He eyed the street name at a crossing speculatively before he went hunting for an underground station. The cost was worth it to avoid another talk with _that man_.

-0-

John was still pissed off when he got home over an hour later. The front door slammed behind him and he stripped the entire way to the bathroom, leaving his clothes where they dropped. He felt humiliated – he could swear the entire underground was inundated with the stench of dirty deeds after the trek he had to take to get back home. Three bloody change over and everyone in the last carriage could smell him by the time his final stop arrived and he got far too many knowing looks. This was that posh alpha prick's fault. Who the hell did he think he was? John growled low at the memory; it was doing him no good, he was already working himself up again. With a final huff, John tried to push the images of the bastard away while he twisted the shower knobs and dove under the hot spray.

But really, why did that man approach him? Why was he propositioning John? He hardly knew Sherlock, surely there were better people to get answers from than him.

His attempts to forget the despicable introduction to Mr. Corleone had failed utterly. Despite the warmth of the shower and the chance to scrub his skin clean, John was a bundle of nerves by the time he left the bathroom and was collapsing into his bed. He was bloody stressed, he wanted to sleep the whole afternoon off, but at the same time he wanted to jump up and work off the excitement buzzing under his skin. He wished he had gotten the omega's number now, that way he could call Sherlock up and rant until he was blue in the face. _Holy shit_, John did not need to get himself involved with any drug lords.

John mulled over the situation again and again as he laid there, too frustrated to sleep. At some point he remembered his phone and got up to fish it out of discarded clothes. The phone had died some time on his way home so he plugged it in and turned it on. Maybe he could call Mike and get some impartial advice. Hell, maybe he should call the police. He jumped out of his thoughts when his phone buzzed.

The number wasn't saved in his contacts and for a heart stopping moment he thought it was the alpha prick again. Opening the message, though, brought a startling lurch to his heart rate.

_Come at once, if convenient - SH_

John puzzled over the text from an unknown number, SH?... Sherlock? How did he?.. Why? John stared at the text, demanding it feed him the answers he needed. A second text came in right after, this one was an address.

John picked up his jaw from the floor and texted back

_Sherlock?_

He laid back on the bed because fuck him if he thinks he's going to jump at his call.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH_

John huffed at the text. He was deliberately being annoying.

_Could be dangerous - SH_

John just stared at his phone. He wasn't seriously considering… This was madness! He should stay and sleep off this whole day – tomorrow the world would be right again. John closed his eyes and counted to ten. That done he cursed and lugged himself out of bed He told himself it was only because he had nothing better to do and he wasn't so tired any more anyways. Maybe he could get some bloody answers about the drug lord. He was Sherlock's _arch-enemy_ after all.

-0-

John had himself dressed and was scarfing down half a marmite sandwich before he was out the door again, checking his phone – battery barely holding on. The address wasn't far from there, thank god, he didn't have the cash for anything far. While he walked he tried to think up a reason why Sherlock had texted him. It was exciting enough that the omega had contacted him despite abandoning him that morning – apparently after snatching John's number without telling him.

Whatever it was, he believed Sherlock: it could be dangerous.

The address lead him to a block of flats, though Sherlock hadn't given him a flat number to follow. It didn't look like a drug den, nor did it seem special or outstanding or.. anything. It just looked like a regular building. John walked up to the entrance and eyed the labels next to the buzzers, but none of them stood out and he wasn't about to push every one and ask if they knew a scrawny omega named Sherlock.

Great, what now? John stepped away from the front door and headed around the side. Just when he was thinking he should text Sherlock again he caught sight of the familiar mop of hair in the corner of his eye. The omega was hiding in the alley space behind the flats, propped against a wall with a cigarette between his lips. What was with this man and dark shadowy places, anyway?

"Hey," John called as he stepped inside the gap, trying to keep his expression schooled when those grey eyes rose to meet his. _Remember, John_, he scolded himself, _you're suppose to be angry._ He managed to glare at Sherlock while the omega watched him, eyes flickering over John like he was an open book. "Well? I'm here."

"So you are." A trail of smoke rose over him in a cloud as he puffed out the lungful. "And?"

John blinked at him. "You texted me." He touched his pocket, ready to prove it with the damn message. "If this was some sort of joke, I swear, I – "

"Oh, yes," Sherlock spoke over the beginnings of John's rant, "I require your assistance."

John took a moment to breathe out through his nose. He glanced around the both of them, but there was nothing noteworthy to see. "Assistance? I'm your assistant now, am I? What is this, Sherlock?"

"The building." Sherlock drew another long pull from his cigarette as he glowered at the l of the flats. "There is a flat I need to examine. I need your help getting in."

"What? Examine? Why?" John was just about to say no. Why would Sherlock think John would willingly help him break into a flat? But what Sherlock said next made John stop and really think twice about everything he thought he knew about the omega named Sherlock.

"There's been a _murder_, John."

-0-

-0-0-

-0-

Thanks everyone again for the comments, they really help me and inspire me to write more.

And as always, thanks so much to CrackshotKate over at ao3 for beta and britpicking for me. She's amazing, seriously. My stories would only be half as good without her.


	7. Chapter 7

"You're serious? No, you _can't_ be serious," He scowled at the pointed look Sherlock was giving him, a _you are being moronic right now_ look that wasn't helping John understand the situation any better – he wasn't a bloody mind reader!

"In flat 5-A, I need your assistance to –" he began, but John was having none of it.

"Sherlock, you're not serious! If someone's been murdered, then we need to call the police, we've got to– I don't know – _Jesus_." He made a reach for his phone. The police would know what to do, but how would he explain how Sherlock knew about the body – how _did_ Sherlock know about the body? He'd think of something. He –

"No, you misunderstand," Sherlock snapped impatiently. He snatched at John's wrist and the leather of his gloves was bloody cold. How long had he been standing out here? "The murder is old news. The police left a half hour ago – after ruining the crime scene with incompetence, I'm sure."

"What?" John let his arm fall slack and Sherlock released him in favour of nursing his cigarette again. John was completely flat-footed here, "So… you're telling me you want to break into a dead man's home?" John shook his head, "For what, exactly?"

"Dead _woman_, but yes," Sherlock's eyes briefly crinkled when he smiled, "I must see the crime scene, or what's left of it."

"Why the hell would you want to do that?"

Sherlock's smile vanished. He whirled around and stalked out of the alley space, speaking quickly all the while, "John, it's a case! A mystery! If I can see the crime scene, I could solve it ten times faster than Lestrade and his team of-"

"_Lestrade_?" John hissed out, "The omega from the night I saved your stupid arse? What does he have to do with any this?"

"Why do you have to be such an idiot, John?" Sherlock snapped, cold grey eyes boring holes into him from over the omega's shoulder, "Lestrade is the detective inspector working the case. He has refused to allow me into the flat even though he _knows_ I could have solved it by now!"

John fell silent as the omega worked himself up into a state; he didn't have to be such a dick about it – John just wanted to understand why he should be helping an unstable omega break into a dead woman's flat – was that so much to ask? He was curious, though; _could_ Sherlock really find a killer? Anyone else and John would have called them mad, but Sherlock was different, he saw things no one else did.

It was more than curiosity, he wanted to help. He thought back to the man named Lestrade, the man who came for Sherlock when he needed help. He wondered what their relationship was that Sherlock could harass the man about his work and that Lestrade would come when Sherlock needed him. An officer of the law and a junkie made a very odd pair to mingle. There must be a history there John wasn't seeing.

Sherlock had plunged into a tense quiet when they reach the front entrance of the flat block, his cigarette dropped and crushed under toe. Whilst John hadn't officially agreed to help, it appeared Sherlock was going right on ahead with his plan anyway. That seemed to be the growing ritual between them, despite John's complaints. Sherlock lead and he played catch up – he really should be more upset with the idea than he actually felt.

Eyeing the list of names on the intercoms, he remembered the flat Sherlock had mentioned earlier, 5-A. The name listed beside the number was 'Thomson', "How do you plan on getting in? Know anyone?" He glanced to Sherlock, who merely past him one of those looks again.

"Don't be dull, John," he dismissed the question in favour of selecting one of the flats to buzz, he moved too quickly for John to see which one though. Biting his tongue on snapping back, John let the remark go. Something told him Sherlock did this all the time, the bastard, and the truth of the matter was he wouldn't have called John here if he really didn't need him.

Silence stretched on and John was just about to suggest they find a different flat to buzz when a woman's voice came over the speaker, "Hello?"

"Hello!" The noise that came out of Sherlock in that moment was so frightfully different that John nearly jumped away. He turned to stare at the man that had suddenly possessed the moody omega. "I'm sorry to bother. I'm a friend of Franklin, in 2-A", John glanced down to the name plate, 'Jones', then shot back up to Sherlock's shockingly open expression, "He told me all about that dreadful.. that _murder_," he hissed out. He sounded like a bloody gossip hen, "I came to check on him and now he isn't answering the buzzer!"

"Oh!" The woman on the other end had no idea of the act Sherlock was putting on at this moment. He stared openly and hopefully at the buzzer, his expression lax and his eyes a bit wider than usual. He wasn't even standing the same, instead he was leaning just a bit to his right, bracing his weight upon a hand against the wall. The pose made him seem a bit awkward in the leather jacket, but John could believe he was very much the concerned friend he was pretending to be. "Do you think he's all right?"

"He might be having a nap and can't hear the buzzer. Normally I'd just come back, but I was hoping I could try banging on his door?" His head dipping against a shrugged shoulder.

"Oh, I understand, that business with the Thomsons? Dreadful. Sarah was such a sweet girl," The woman was being reeled in and she didn't even see it, "You need me to buzz you in?"

"Please? That would be wonderful." The man chirped gleefully.

The buzz followed and the door was unlocked. There was no 'thank you' to come when the persona enchanting Sherlock crumbled away with a twitch of his lips and a glance back to John. He raised both his eyebrows to the omega and followed behind when Sherlock slipped into the hallway, "That was amazing, I almost believed you could be _nice_." Sherlock's smile returned as he lead the way to the lift, John right on his tail. "How'd you know Franklin's name?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked all like a moody teenager doing it. It was heart-wrenchingly endearing, "Police investigation. His name was mentioned between the officers outside the block. I happened to overhear."

"Right, of course... Fine, I'll help," John wanted to speak up before they got too deep into this 'investigation', "But this is crazy, you realise that, right? I'm fairly sure you can get into deep shit for tampering with a crime scene. Christ, you're acting like you do this all the time."

"Lestrade lets me help, on occasion, when the police are out of their depth," Sherlock offered while they waited for the lift to drop. His expression shift to a small scowl, "At least, he use to."

John wondered what exactly had stopped that allowance.

"And," Sherlock seemed to know exactly how to poke at John's bleeding heart, "isn't it worth the risk to put a murderer behind bars?"

John surrendered his last plea against what they were about to do. Yes, this was for the greater good. Given Sherlock could live up to his claims. The doors of the lift opened and he followed the tall omega in. "Thomson, that was what the flat label said."

"Yes. Abigail and Sarah Thomson," Sherlock offered as he watched the numbers change over the door, "Alpha and omega, Sarah was found stabbed to death upon Abigail's return from work. The house was ransacked and the police believe it was a robbery gone wrong, imbeciles."

"Hold on, how do you know, if you weren't allowed to help?" John puzzled when the lift chimed their floor. He quickly followed after the omega when he stalked out and down the hall.

"Again, I overheard the police discussing the scene when they were here, I have five theories," the omega waved off any further questions with a flutter of a hand. His attention fell completely on the door in question – 5-A. Testing the knob revealed that yes, in fact, it was locked.

"Five theories? Five? About a murderer?" John had to know, "Sounds like you've already got this in the bag; why exactly do you need me?"

The omega ignored him in favour of the small leather pouch he had pulled from his pocket. Flipping it open revealed a set of long metal tools John recognised instantly, "Jesus, you're just a pandora's box, aren't you?" He huffed out as he watched the man begin picking the lock.

None the wiser on why he was there, John favored the wall opposite the door and kept watch for anyone coming or going. It took less than a minute for the latch to turn and for Sherlock to right himself once more. The omega glanced back to John as he swung the door open, a self-satisfied smirk etched across his face. John could only grin back because yes, that was amazing.

The grin quickly vanished when they let themselves inside the flat for the first time. The living room was a mess of Sherlock proportions and there was a pungent smell of bleach that made John's eyes water a bit. He stopped just inside the door and held his hand over his nose. He'd heard of this happening on television shows: the smell of bleach covered up a criminal's scent pretty damn well. "Stinks in here; it's a mess too, you sure it wasn't just a break-in? They really wrecked the place."

"One." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Only one person did this and it wasn't a break-in, this was done to cover the truth."

John stuffed his hands into his coat pocket, unwilling to chance the trouble he'd be in if they somehow lift his fingerprints from the room. That's how it worked, didn't it? Of course, he'd never been to an actual crime scene so he was just working off films and TV programmes. It was better to be safe than sorry; Sherlock didn't have the same reserve, it seemed. He was picking through the mess and lifting things left and right to examine them – good thing he was wearing gloves. God, and this was only the second weirdest thing to happen today.

"Fuck," John bit out when the memory slammed into him: Mr. Drug Lord, how had John forgotten about him so easily? He looked up to see Sherlock giving him a curious glance, "Just remembered," John frowned, "met an enemy of yours today."

"Oh? Who?" Sherlock seemed to lose interest in the conversation almost instantly. Funny, one would think that would provoke some attention. Instead, Sherlock took more care investigating a bookshelf.

"Don't know, he said he was your arch-enemy," John offered, "Looked like a right arse."

That brought a soft snicker from Sherlock, "Yes. He is. I know exactly who you mean and he is not my problem right now."

"Sherlock, he kidnapped me," John growled a bit, how could he just write this off?

"Did he offer you money?"

"What?... Yeah, he did."

"And did you take it?"

"Of course not," John snapped back.

"Pity, you could have used it," That was… god, that was insane. Did John actually hear him right? He might have asked Sherlock to repeat himself, but the man had moved on almost instantly and began chattering about the case once more.

"Abigail works at Harrison Law," Sherlock began without prompt as he looked back over the living room. It seemed like he was developing the story, so John gave up and didn't try to interrupt, "Sarah worked part time child-minding for local parents." Sherlock set down picture frame dropped on the ground and made his way towards the kitchen.

"They had no children of their own. Sarah was barren, but they were considering adoption." Sherlock sniffed around the sink before he started digging in the cabinets, "They were disgustingly happy, Abigail wasn't the murderer. Three theories."

"Brilliant," the word came out before John could stop himself, but he didn't miss the brief smile Sherlock made. At the very least it prompted Sherlock to continue.

"They were close to family, especially Sarah's mother and brother – twin – omega," Sherlock gestured towards something in the living room, but John couldn't really pinpoint where, so he pretended he did and nodded. Sherlock had turned away then and headed deeper into the flat and, after a moment's hesitation, John followed.

Together they made their way down the hall and through a closed door. The very moment John stepped into the room he was swarmed with the smell of omega – in heat. _What the fuck_?!

The reality of the situation dawned quickly for John – he was smelling the heat of a very dead omega. The horror sent him recoiling back into the hall, but he'd only made it a step before Sherlock grabbed his arm and dragged him back into the room. "Sherlock?! What the _hell_ are you doing?!"

"I want you to focus, John," his voice was calm compared to the panic rising in John's chest.

"Jesus, Sherlock, this woman is dead! I'm not about to start wanking to-"

"Are you?" Sherlock bit through John's panic.

"What, Sherlock, I…" John shuttered, his eyes closing as he tried to focus. The smell was there, lovely and strong, but it wasn't like it had been with Sherlock. He wasn't actually trying to stick his cock in the nearest hole. Even if she was bound, he should have reacted more than this. Was it because she was dead? He stared up at Sherlock in utter confusion, "What's happening?"

"Her heats never functioned properly, that's why they couldn't have children," he was the perfect picture of composure compared to John. "It's standard protocol for police to keep alphas out of murder scenes like this, but they miss crucial evidence."

"Is that why I'm here? Arsehole, you could have warned me," John's voice shook. He reached up and grabbed Sherlock's arms when the omega tried to move away. Fuck _that_. Sherlock wasn't leaving him.

"_Focus_, John, What do you smell?"

"An omega in heat." John snapped out, glaring at the manipulative fuck.

"Yes, thank you, but I was hoping you'd go deeper," Sherlock drawled, eyes rolling.

"What are you expecting from me?" John shook his head, he didn't understand what 'evidence' Sherlock insisted was there and he wasn't sure he want to. His stomach was starting to twist at all the smells coming out of the woodwork. There was danger here, the smell of fear and death rose up over the sting of bleach and his brain was screaming at him to take the omega he had in his arms and run for it.

"You may not be in a frenzy, but the pheromones will heighten your senses." Sherlock's voice was ever insistent, "I want you to find what those idiot Yarders couldn't, so close your eyes and _tell me_ what you smell."

Sherlock tugged back and John released him with reluctance. Favouring the wall near the door he leant against it while he carded a hand through his hair. He inhaled deeply and surrendered to the uncomfortable situation he'd found himself in.

"Bleach. A lot of it. And Blood," John grimaced, "Sherlock, I-"

"Yes, she was stabbed in here, by a pair of sewing scissors. The carpet is stained on the other side of the bed. What else."

This was giving John a headache. "Ah.. An alpha, bonded with the omega, a bunch of other people too, the police I imagine. I don't know what you're expecting, It's.. hang on." John wrinkled his nose and took in another deep breath. When the smell didn't clear he moved closer to the bed. Ah, there it was. "Another omega's been here recently.. it smells a lot like the woman's so I missed it-"

"I knew it" Sherlock was celebrating even before it was completely out of John's mouth, "It was the omega's fraternal twin."

"What?" John opened his eyes and looked back to Sherlock, "Just because his smell is here-"

"You simply confirmed a long list of suspicions," Sherlock waved off John's shock, "Sarah and her alpha have always been friends with her brother. In fact, there are pictures scattered around the apartment depicting them at different ages. They've been friend since primary."

While Sherlock explained everything in rapid succession, he started digging through the different drawers in the room. John didn't much appreciate the lack of care Sherlock was taking. He fought the urge to go and wrestle him out of the room.

"His motives for remaining close were not for friendship though, he is unbonded, correct?" Sherlock shot John a demanding look and John forced a nod. God, his stomach twisted against the smells and he was certain he was going to throw up. Crouching down against the wall, John tried to ease his protesting body while Sherlock ranted on. "He hasn't found an alpha for himself. It must have really stung when Abigail picked his poor, barren sister over him. He should have been the obvious choice – he was jealous."

"So what," John grumbled miserably, "a lot of people are jealous, that doesn't mean they go around killing people, especially not their sisters."

"Jealousy is a fairly popular reason to kill, John," Sherlock's smile was arrogant. The sod didn't even care that John was going to be sick. "But no, something changed. Sarah must have kept him close – went to him for support during her crippled heats. Ah-"

Sherlock brandished a set of papers tucked under an overturned night stand, "And here it is. They were approved for adoption. His broken sister and the love of his life were about to have a perfect family and it was just too much."

"So she made the announcement and he killed her?"

"Yes… No," Sherlock's tone suddenly changed, he was uncertain now and John lifted his gaze to the omega, watching his expression turn into a frustrated scowl. "There was something else. Something more. What is it?" Sherlock dug through the poor couple's wardrobe and John dropped his head into his hands again.

"That.. was bloody brilliant, Sherlock, but can we please just leave now? This place… it isn't safe." _Not to mention it's putting my head through a blender_. Despite John's pleas, the bumping and moving didn't end. John forced down the urge to drag Sherlock away once more and instead he focused on keeping his lunch in his stomach.

He didn't look up again until he realised, minutes later, the room had gone quiet.

"Sherlock?" He looked up, then pushed himself to his feet when he couldn't see the omega. Checking the wardrobe, then the bathroom, revealed nothing. Had he run off without telling John? _Again_?

He escaped the room's fog of hormones in a stumble and stopped in the hall to take in some much needed breaths. They all smelled like bleach, but god he didn't even care right now. The front door to the flat opened and John snapped out, "Sherlock, I swear to god," he stomped his way to the living room. "If you just walked out, I-"

What he found was certainly _not_ Sherlock. What he found were two uniformed officers looking at him as if he just walked in with his head cut off. _Oh, shit_!

"Don't move," one commanded with a hand on his baton, "hands on your head. Now."

John raised his hands helplessly, "Oh my god, I'm sorry, I was just – I'm not actually–" John was babbling. Fuck, he was going to be accused of murder and he was going to spend the rest of his life in prison and _where_ the _hell_ was Sherlock?

"Hands on your head. Now!" The man was shouting now, there was no way they were going to listen. He was fucked.

"Look, please, just hear me out, I'm here with a friend-" He pressed his hands on his head and flinched when they jumped at him, grabbing his arms, tugging his hands down and cuffing them behind his back. His world narrowed down on that tiny little point in space.

Someone was talking, but John was just trying not to bolt. He couldn't believe it. It _couldn't_ be happening. Sherlock dragged him in here and abandoned him when he was done. Why? And more importantly: why did John fall for it?

-0-

John sat alone in a holding cell for the first time in his entire life. His head was pounding and his stomach was turning with dread. They had dropped him there almost an hour earlier after finding no one else in the flat with him. Whatever happened to Sherlock, it was clear he wasn't interested in clearing John's good name. He tried explaining on the way, but neither officers were interested in hearing what John had to say. Fuck. What was he suppose to do now?

John jumped when he heard his name at the bars – he hadn't even heard the guy approach. "Huh? Yeah?"

"Get up, you're going to interrogation," the man said rather stiffly as he unlocked the cell. John did as he was asked and was lead to a small room that looked a little too much like the one's he'd seen in films. A table and two chairs sat in the centre with a door and a mirror along one wall. The officer pushed him down in the seat and John went without complaint. What did they expect him to say? God, if they didn't listen now…

The very idea of going through this nightmare was almost enough to send John spiralling into a panic. He dropped his head onto the table and covered it with both hands, "someone, kill me now."

The door opened again some time later and John jerked his head back, eyes zeroing in on a familiar face. It was him! It was.. oh what was his name, "Lestrade!"

"John." The man gave him a tight lipped smile as he settled down in the chair across from John. He looked tired, but not pissed off or upset like John was imagining. Maybe he would understand. "So you're John Watson. I didn't expect to meet you again. Least not like this."

"You have to believe me, I had nothing to do with this, I-"

"Hey, just relax. Sherlock dragged you into this, yeah?" Lestrade's smile became a bit more real and for the first time in an hour John's panic receded just a tiny bit.

"Did he tell you? He was with me, but then he disappeared. He figured out who the murderer was, it was -"

"The brother? Sherlock texted me that. He didn't mention you, though," that felt like a punch in the gut. Sherlock had bothered to inform on the murderer, but did nothing to help John? He felt the blood drain out of him. His entire career was down the drain before it even started.

"Hey, calm down. Don't look so wrecked, I've got some CCTV footage of you and Sherlock together entering the building," Lestrade's words offered hope, "you were with him, I get it. He can be a right arse, leaving you like that."

John burst into a half hysterical giggle, "Yeah, no kidding. Oh my god, are you're saying-"

"I'm going to let you off with a warning. You don't have a record and you helped the kid out the other night," Lestrade paused when John practically melted with relief. He smiled a bit, then shook his head as he leaned forward, folding his hands together over his files, "Listen, just be careful what you let Sherlock get away with. If you aren't, he'll chew you up and spit you out and not think twice about it."

"Right." Now that John wasn't a complete mess of worry, the betrayal bloated to take its place, ugly and hard deep in his gut. Sherlock had left him without a word of warning, he didn't care about John. He just used him as a nose. He just walked away and John was left looking like a complete and utter imbecile for trusting him.

"Cheer up." Lestrade climbed to his feet and dropped a hand on John's shoulder, "You're not in trouble and you did help the investigation. Just... don't do it again."

The tease fell flat and John nodded, pushing himself up when Lestrade went to the door, "Thank you, Lestrade, for understanding."

"Call me Greg," Lestrade offered a hand to shake. John eagerly took it, "This isn't the first time Sherlock's caused trouble and it won't be the last. Just be careful, yeah?"

John could only nod again. He had never been so utterly mortified before. He just wanted to slink home and never come out from under the covers again. He left Lestrade, Greg, with directions back to the front desk. He kept his head down and pretended not to notice when an officer or two turned and watched him pass.

He claimed his things at the window quickly, hoping to escape this embarrassment without another incident.

"So you're the newest pet Freak been dragging around."

No such luck.

John tensed at those words. He turned to see a plain clothed, dark skinned woman with tight curls. Her stance said 'back off' and she was definitely an alpha. The woman looked him up and down while John slid his jacket over his shoulders, "Excuse me?"

"Your story's all over the office now, heard you turned up right in the middle of a crime scene," her smile was a bit cruel and vindictive when it appeared and John tried to ignore it as he stuffed his once again dead phone in his pocket.

She was clearly trying to start a fight, or at the very least make him feel like a piece of shit. He turned without another word and made a break for the front doors.

"Hey, hang on." She grabbed his arm and he froze, gaze shooting back to her with more of a challenge, "A word of advice, mate: get as far away from Sherlock as you can. The freak doesn't have friends and he definitely doesn't have feelings. You're just the latest in a long line of poor souls he's got on with and dropped after they've stop being 'interesting'."

John jerked his arm free from her grip and she lifted her hand's as a show of peace.

"His words, not mine. Best take this whole fiasco," she gestured around them, "as a sign."

John didn't think he had the stomach to respond. He muttered his goodbye and retreated with his tail between his legs. Only when he was out the door and on the pavement did he let himself breathe deep again. That could have gone so much better – no, that shouldn't gone at all. Who the hell did Sherlock think he was?

God, maybe the woman was right, but John knew one thing for certain, whether she was right or not: he never wanted to see Sherlock ever again.

-0-

-0-0-

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Thanks everyone again for the comments, they really help me and inspire me to write more.

And as always, thanks so much to CrackshotKate over at ao3 for beta and britpicking for me. She's amazing, seriously. My stories would only be half as good without her.


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